The traffic was still thick when they got to the next roundabout. Anne took a right and any view of the sea was gone.
‘You okay, love?’ Anne said. It roused Jenny from her thoughts.
‘I’m okay. I just can’t get my head around how everything has changed. I just don’t know what I can do from here.’
‘You get your baby girl back and you start all over again. The police will keep you safe. Once they do that, nothing else matters.’
‘What about her dad? Does he not matter? She’s not even a year old and she’s lost her dad and I don’t even know why. What if it turns out he’s mixed up in something, what if he turns out to be a criminal or a bad man?’
‘How was he to you? To your baby?’
‘He was great. He was great with me and great with her. I felt really lucky, you know? We didn’t plan Issy, I admit, and we definitely hadn’t been together long enough for it to be the right thing to do, but he was insistent that we would make it work. It was never a consideration, you know, to not go through with it.’
‘I know what you mean. You are lucky, too. Most men in that situation . . . well, you wouldn’t see them for dust. Sounded like a keeper.’
‘I just don’t know now. I just don’t know what happens next.’
‘One step at a time, love. First, we get you to the police station and to your little girl. That’s step one. Don’t be worrying about anything beyond that right now.’
Anne tutted. She was looking down to her right, at the mirror. The Fiat had been drifting across to the right-hand lane as they approached another roundabout, but Anne suddenly jerked it back into the left.
‘Some people are in such a hurry,’ she said. A long, silver car flashed past them in the right lane. It had to brake hard for the roundabout and then it was gone, it moved round to the right and out of sight. Anne moved back over; there was one car in front. It pulled out so that Anne’s Fiat was now on the cusp of the roundabout. Anne checked to her right. The silver car had gone all the way around and she had to wait for it. ‘Bloody idiot doesn’t even know where he’s going.’
The silver car’s headlights flashed. It had slowed to a crawl around the roundabout; now it stopped, holding up the traffic behind. It flashed again. Anne shook her head and pulled the Fiat out onto the roundabout. Jenny was still watching the silver car. Something about it wasn’t right: why flash someone out at a roundabout? She didn’t have time to scream, she saw the silver car hurtle forwards as if it had been kicked from behind. A split second later and the Fiat took the impact hard in the driver’s side. Jenny felt herself thrown right, then hard left. She screamed, the car juddered sideways, she could hear loud engine revs from outside as the Fiat skidded and bucked sideways towards the crash barrier on the left side. Jenny was forcibly turned towards the barrier and it was getting relentlessly closer. She saw a flash of colour — a car trying to get up the inside and out of the way. It didn’t make it. Jenny’s side took the impact this time, the metal bent inwards, the noise was terrific. Anne cried out as Jenny’s window imploded and shards of glass fell into her lap. The flash of colour was now gone. The silver car was out of sight, too. The Fiat stopped moving and rocked back onto its wheels. Jenny turned to Anne. She looked stunned and her face was ashen; she was bleeding freely from the back of her head. Then, beyond Anne, she saw it again: the silver car was backing away, its front bent in and crushed and its windscreen with a spider web pattern to it. There was the roar of an engine and the screech of tyres and then the silver car was speeding towards them again.
Anne turned to Jenny. She looked resigned. Strands of her hair were slick across her face and ran between her lips. ‘Run love!’ she gasped.
‘ANNE!’ Everything flashed white. Suddenly Jenny was staring at the sky, then the dark grey tarmac, then the sky again. She could do nothing but grimace as forces pulled and tugged at her body. Then she was aware of being upright again. Her head spun, her ears rang and everything had a pink tinge. Her door was rocking open — she couldn’t be sure if she had pushed it open or not. She could see a raised curb and she felt for it with her left foot. She couldn’t see Anne. What was left of the driver’s side was now empty. She got out onto the curb and bumped into a sturdy metal railing. Her left hand reached out for it instinctively. People were approaching her on foot, though she couldn’t make out any details. Everything seemed fuzzy and she could feel herself falling. But something kept her up. Then came a sound with which she was now familiar: a gunshot.
Still acting on instinct, Jenny ducked behind the shell of the car. Her ears were ringing loudly and when she heard the second shot it sounded distant — but she couldn’t be sure and she knew the shots were meant for her. She knew she had to go. She heard voices — they might have been shouts but, regardless, she couldn’t tell what they were saying. There was a gap straight ahead between the car bonnet and the railing. Her body flooded with adrenalin again, she sprang through it. As she moved clear of the wreckage, she heard another crack of gunfire.
The traffic had come to a standstill and there were a lot of cars around. As she darted between two of them, she heard a sound like falling glass from her right followed swiftly by a shout of anguish. She turned left and aimed for another two stationary cars. As she approached the gap between them, one of the doors was pushing open. Jenny screamed for them to get back in their car. She kept weaving between the gridlocked vehicles and could now see an alleyway ahead. Leading off one of the roundabout exits where she now found herself, it looked like it ran down the side of a church. At least she hoped it was an alleyway. Though her lungs felt like bursting, she made it. She hit the opening so fast she bounced off the church wall, and the sharp flints in the masonry bit into her shoulder. Jenny kept running and burst from the alleyway into a cobbled street. She turned right; it seemed a logical assumption that those chasing her would expect her to continue left, the direction she had been heading in. The cobbled street was busy with shoppers and she recognised it as the High Street. People stopped to gape at Jenny but she didn’t care. They were just cover for her.
Chapter 10
George followed Whittaker’s car through the gate to Langthorne House. The old man looked stressed as he stood up out of the back seat. He made straight for George.
‘Major, how’s your day?’
‘The phrase bad to worse comes to mind, old boy. Are you plumbed into the grid?’
‘I have my radio, but I’ve not been monitoring. Are there developments?’
‘I’ll say there are. The woman made contact — or at least we think it was her. There’s been another incident out on the roads. More carnage. Our woman has gone back underground. And this time I don’t think she’ll be popping her head back out again.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, George, I have literally no idea right now. Someone is on their way here for a strategy meeting. Another damned strategy meeting. The press have made the link. I’m getting nothing but questions I can’t answer. I think it’s fair to say my dinner will be getting cold tonight, my friend.’
‘Call ahead, sir. Forewarn the wife, soften the blow.’
‘I sometimes wonder if you listen to a damned thing I say, George. I already told you my day is a stinker. The last thing I need to be doing is calling up the enemy with unacceptable news.’
‘You’d rather save it all up for when you get home?’
‘Who knows? Part of me is considering bringing up how I should approach the wife in this latest strategy meeting. Some of our finest tactical minds will be there, see? Someone must have an idea.’
The men chuckled. Then the chuckles subsided quickly.
‘What’s the story with this other job, George? No doubt I will be fielding questions on that one too.’
‘It’s a sad one, I’m afraid. Elderly couple robbed at home in the middle of the night. Just the old boy survived it. CSI are still there, but it’s just one officer. She could do with some help to get the scene processed. Any cha
nce you can spare her some help?’
Whittaker rubbed at his face. ‘I know that what you have is far from ideal, but our situation down here just got worse. From what I hear we have yet another scene — someone else fighting for their life on the streets of Dover. I’m losing people to this job, George, if anything. I’m certainly not able to free anyone up.’
‘Okay. I think she’s quite happy to keep working away up there. They’ll just have to stay on the scene longer. I suppose our victim isn’t going anywhere. I want this one though, sir — the job, I mean. I’m going to have the bastards that did this.’
Whittaker registered a flicker of pleasure through his mask of stress. ‘It’s yours, George. I don’t hear that enough from my officers. I could do with getting you up to speed on this other job, though. A fresh pair of eyes and a man of your experience might be able to start filling in the blanks. Or at least point out what the blanks are. Right now, that would be a start. Especially now you’re sober!’
‘I was always sober, sir. Now I’m just a little more sober.’
‘On top form then, old boy.’ Whittaker led the way back to his office. He tasked DS Richards with getting the update about this latest incident. She nodded and left them to it.
‘Push the door shut, George.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to be in there getting that update yourself, sir? I can stick around.’
‘No. God, no. I mean . . . yes, I should, but I just wanted to push the door shut for a few minutes and organise my thoughts. I reckoned that telling you what I know might be a good way of doing that.’
‘Okay. Sounds like you’ve had a lot going on. What’s the deal?’
‘Where to start? So we get a call — well, a number of calls — from members of the public reporting gunshots and car crashes on London Road, Dover shortly after 10 a.m. yesterday. Sunday of all days, the day of rest.’
‘We both know criminals don’t play by those rules, sir.’
‘We do indeed. In fact, it seems to have become a popular day for major incidents. So, anyway, patrols are sent. There’s a patrol already parked up at the Morrison’s store not far from the reported incident and they hear the commotion for themselves. And then I’ll be damned if they don’t find a baby left on the bonnet of their car! There are more gunshots and much confusion. So we’re all chasing our arses and one another’s arses, then a crashed car is found on London Road with some poor bastard shot up and lying on the pavement, dead as nails in a door. Then, bugger me if we don’t get more calls, more shots fired but this time in a built-up area nearby. I mean, it’s walking distance, so naturally the calls are linked. Police attend where neighbours have reported the bangs and, sure enough, we find another fella with a hole where one shouldn’t be.’ Whittaker flicked open a blue-backed book he had been carrying. He ran his finger over the page. ‘Stephen Maddocks. He’s well known locally apparently.’
‘Stephen Maddocks! Yeah, I know him. Everyone knows Stephen Maddocks, bless him. He’s a bit simple. Got a real obsession with the police.’
‘He did.’
‘I see.’
‘Well and truly did.’
‘Jesus! How the hell did Maddocks get mixed up in this?’
‘Well, you can imagine the amount of witness statements and the rest that are outstanding, we’re still piecing it together. Basically it would appear our missing woman initially ran from the car on London Road.’
‘Leaving a dead guy?’
‘Yes, that’s what we think we know. She’s cut through to the car park and ditched the baby on the police car. Then she kept on running. We can only imagine she was the target for this gunman and she didn’t want to be holding her baby if he caught up with her.’
‘Baby?’
‘Keep up, George! So she’s carrying a baby girl when she runs. Six months old, tops.’
‘Okay. This is getting worse.’
‘I know, tell me about it. Poor girl. The baby seems fine. Now . . . the mother . . . we think she ran down the river path where she met with this Stephen Maddocks, who might have offered her his help. He’s probably come out of his house to see what the fuss was about.’
‘Probably heard the sirens. He’s one of these people that always seem to turn up at incidents.’
‘Every town has one. But, yes, he lives nearby. He was likely walking up the path and she’s run right into him. He’s happy to help and somehow the gunman follows her into his house.’
‘He was shot at home?’
‘Yes. It looks like he was shot through his own front door. There’s also blood in the rear courtyard. The running theory being that this is how the woman escaped. We assume she has picked up an injury of sorts.’
‘She really was having a bad day.’
‘She was. And it has gotten considerably worse. We lost her from that point, but witnesses told us that the dead man, before he died, was shouting out to her and he was calling her Jenny. That’s all we know about her at this point. So I did an appeal on the telly box and I called her Jenny — as if we knew a lot more than we do.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘You wouldn’t think so. I’ve come in for a little flack for that from our more senior colleagues. I wanted it to be a personal appeal. I wanted her to think we know what the hell we are doing, you know?’
‘And she got in touch?’
‘Someone did on her behalf. We’ve had a few hoaxes, but a call came in to say that the girl was in Dover and the caller was bringing her to the station. On the way, the car was rammed repeatedly by a vehicle that now appears to have been stolen. Our girl’s driver is killed in the impact. We have more gunshots and a female was seen running from the car towards the town. She roughly matches the description of our missing girl — and it has to be her.’
‘It does, I agree. Someone’s really got it in for her. What do we know about the man she left behind at the first incident?’
‘White male, late thirties. Dead. That’s about all we know for certain right now. The car is a hire car, no IDs found. The hire car company have provided a driving licence number — it exists on the DVLA system but for someone entirely different and the photo sure as hell doesn’t match.’
‘I see. So, a fake licence with a doctored image. That’s not a good sign.’
‘It isn’t. It appears it was a good fake too. The sort professional criminals might source.’
‘Did you use the lantern?’ The lantern was a fingerprint scanner attached to a mobile phone, a way of identifying people on the spot. It was expensive and in most cases rendered unlawful by legislation but in circumstances like these it could be invaluable.
‘We did. No match on the system. We’ve gone with a fast track on the DNA and dental records. But we both know they’re not particularly fast. I think maybe when this is all over I might petition to have the name fast track changed.’
Neither man had sat down since they had entered the office. Whittaker leant on the back of his chair and George stood opposite, running over the timeline in his mind. Suddenly, it didn’t quite fit.
‘The last incident — where the car was rammed — how was it called in?’
‘On 1-0-1.’
‘Did we get details of the caller?’
‘No, they refused.’
‘The phone number?’
‘We have a mobile phone number, yes. I’m not sure it furthers our cause though. If it’s not a contract phone, there won’t be anyone attached to it.’
‘The vehicle was rammed on the way to the police station, right? What I don’t understand is how our offenders knew she was in that car and on her way?’
‘Maybe they followed her from Stephen Maddocks’ place?’
‘What, the day before? And then they waited for her to get into a car before they rammed her? That doesn’t make sense. These people had been shooting in the street. If they saw her go into a house they’d hardly have any qualms about shooting their way in. Wouldn’t have been the first time, would it?�
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‘So what are you saying?’
‘Have you listened to the 1-0-1 call?’
‘No, I don’t know if anyone has. It’s not been mentioned.’
George stepped to the phone on Whittaker’s desk. He pressed three numbers, an internal extension.
‘Jane, hey! It’s George Elms down in Langthorne. I need your help.’
‘Don’t you always. You and everyone else today, George. If it isn’t quick and it isn’t urgent then I might have to turn you down for once.’ Jane Adams was a team leader at the Force Control Room. She led the team who could review and provide calls to the police if they formed part of the evidence — which they often did. She was on speakerphone. Whittaker cut in.
‘Jane, this is Chief Inspector John Whittaker. Can I just assure you that this phone call falls into both of those categories. I’m stood here with George. The world is falling down around our ears here, I’m sure you’re busy for the same reason.’
‘Yes, sir! What can I do for you, sir?’
George spoke again, ‘Jane, we got a 1-0-1 call today — someone claiming to be with the woman who fled yesterday’s incident. Do you know about it?’
‘In Dover? I know the incident. I know there was a call today. We haven’t reviewed it yet.’
‘So you haven’t downloaded the WAV file yet?’
‘No. We’ve had requests for the others, but not that one. I did ask if it was needed but I was told that one can be done slow-time.’
‘Okay. I’m now telling you that this one might be the most important of them all. Can you process this one and send it to Mr Whittaker direct?’
‘Yes, of course. I can do it straight away. I just need a minute or two to find the call reference again — it’ll be on a job form.’
‘Thanks, Jane. I owe you one.’
‘You owe me a lot more than one, George Elms.’
George grinned at the phone. ‘Noted.’
The call ended. ‘What do you think this might give us, George?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Maybe nothing.’
THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 8
