by Michael Kerr
He unlocked the front door. The cottage was freezing inside. He would soon get the oil-fired boiler going and warm the place up. First things first, though. He went back to the car, opened the boot and appraised the love of his life.
He lifted Dawn up, out of the boot. Used his elbow to close the lid, and carried her over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind them. He felt like a newlywed, his bride cradled in his arms. He lowered his head and kissed her tenderly on the forehead and then set her down.
“This is it, Maggie,” he said. “I hope you’ll be happy here. It’s your new home.”
“Where are we, Eddie?” she said.
The palm of his hand connected with her cheek, echoing like a pistol shot through the cottage. She staggered backwards, fell heavily to the paved floor and felt a sharp agonising pain as her left shoulder took the full force of her weight. She was positive that her collarbone had broken.
“I’ve told you, there’s no such person as Eddie,” he said. “I’m Bob. Now get up. I’ll show you to your room.”
“I...I don’t think I can,” she sobbed. “My shoulder is broken.”
Dear God. She could be so fucking exasperating. He hoped that all the time he was investing in her would be worth the effort. Women were strange creatures. He loved them, but at times they drove him to distraction. He drew his gun, helped her to stand up, and then pointed the weapon toward the stairs.
“Up the wooden hill, angel. And remember what happened the last time you tried to escape. Now move that gorgeous arse, before I lose my temper.”
As she put her foot on the first stair, there was a knock at the door.
Eddie developed a sudden twitch in his right cheek. This was not part of his well-scripted plan. Who could be outside? Who knew he was here, or had seen him arrive?
He motioned for Dawn to come back to him, and when she did, he pushed the muzzle of the gun into the small of her back and guided her towards the door.
“Ask who it is,” he whispered. “And get rid of them, or they’re fucking dead.”
Dawn took a deep breath. Maybe she could scream for help, and throw her full weight back into him. This might be her only chance. There was no way she was going to believe anything he had said to her. She was certain that she would be kept, used, and eventually murdered when he became uninterested in her. She had watched him kill, and knew of the horrendous acts he had committed against other women he had stalked.
Another knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she said. The moment had passed. The pressure of the gun barrel against her spine increased, pressing her up against the varnished wood. There would be a better time to make a move, if she survived the next few seconds.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
JACK heard the car approach and then stop. The seconds crawled by. The engine was idling. He listened as the doors of what he supposed was a garage opened. The car was driven in and silence returned; a cloying, disturbing absence of sound. He was of the city, and could not recall hearing nothing at all. The silence was a little unnerving. He strained his ears. There was not even the sound of a fridge humming, or a clock ticking. He couldn’t even hear the wind or the ocean. No patter of raindrops on windows. It was eerie, as if he had been struck deaf and was in a vacuum. His heart seemed to stall when the sound of a key turning in the lock filled the air.
The door opened, and Jack hit memory and the stored number of Lisa’s mobile. Let it ring twice as arranged, then switched his phone off, pocketed it and held the semiautomatic two-handed, his finger curled round the trigger, taking up the small amount of slack.
Footsteps walking away. He knew the door had been left open. Then the sound of what he believed to be a car boot lid being closed.
He waited. The front door slammed shut. He heard Eddie’s voice. Felt a surge of relief at having been right. Eddie called the woman with him Maggie. Who the hell was Maggie? And then he heard Dawn’s voice, followed by a sharp clapping sound. The short conversation that followed clarified the situation. Eddie had assumed the identity of Robert Corby, and wanted Dawn to call him Bob. Told her to get up. She was sobbing. He had struck her, and was now ordering her to go upstairs.
Easing himself up from the crouched position he had adopted, he stood inside the lounge and waited. Dawn would walk past with Eddie behind her, no doubt with a gun in his hand. Jack’s instinct told him to just shoot Eddie in the side of the head. Within a thousandth of a second the bullet would have passed through his brain, instantly killing him. But there was the slim chance that a reflex action would cause his finger to tighten and discharge his weapon, which he would most likely be holding. If Dawn died, then he would have failed her. The alternative would be to smash the gun barrel down on Eddie’s wrist. If he released the weapon, then he could be taken alive. If he kept a grip on it, there would be no time to do anything but shoot him.
A knock at the door complicated matters. Jack took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He snatched a quick look around the edge of the half open door. Eddie had his gun jammed into Dawn’s back. Jack withdrew. Had to wait. When he acted it would have to be at the optimum moment. He was still in complete control of the situation. The last thing Eddie expected was for anyone to be inside the cottage. He would soon get the biggest and probably the last surprise of his worthless life.
Dawn opened the door, just a couple of inches. An old man was standing on the step. He smiled and greeted her.
“Hello. I’m your nearest neighbour, Malcolm Gaskill,” he said. “I was just walking my dog along the cliff path and saw you arrive, so I thought I’d introduce myself.”
“I’m sorry...Mr Gaskill, but now isn’t a good time,” Dawn said. “We’ve had a long drive, and my...my husband isn’t feeling very well.”
Saw you arrive. The three words echoed in Eddie’s mind. If he’d seen them arrive, then he had seen the Merc, and may have watched as he had lifted Dawn out of the boot. Maybe not. If a prying yokel had witnessed something like that, then surely he wouldn’t be knocking at the door. He would have beaten a hasty retreat and reported the incident to the local plods. He had to make an instant decision; let the man go on his merry way, or open the door, beat him senseless, and throw him over the cliff edge.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs...”
“Corby,” Dawn said. “Maggie Corby. Maybe we could call and see you later today, after we’ve settled in and got some rest?”
“That would be nice,” Malcolm said. “If you turn left, back out on the main road, mine is the first house you’ll come to. Well, it’s a bungalow actually, called Sea View.”
Eddie didn’t like it. Not at all. Nobody was supposed to know that Dawn was here. Not until he thought he could trust her. She was his secret. He should have answered the door to the stranger who didn’t have the sense to mind his own business.
Dawn was willing the man to go away. She knew that if he persisted, then Eddie would lose patience and kill him.
Even as she thought it, Eddie grasped her by the hair and swung her out of his way. She cried out as her back hit the wall and her shoulder exploded with fresh pain as she sank down onto her heels, incapacitated.
When the door was jerked open in front of him, Malcolm stepped back. His eyes widened as they took in the scene. The man was pointing a handgun at his face, and behind him, squatting on the floor, the young woman he’d been talking to was crying aloud.
Charlie growled. His haunches quivered and he made to leap at the man who was emanating strong waves of hostility, directed towards his master.
Everything happened with such speed and fluidity. It could have been a well-rehearsed scene in a play or movie, Dawn thought. Actors hitting their marks and delivering the lines.
By any stretch of the imagination, Charlie was not an attack dog. He was twelve years old, had a predominantly friendly nature, and was a little highly strung. He hesitated, then made a half-hearted lunge; lips drawn back, giving him the appearance of something not quit
e able to project the ferocity or capability of a trained police dog, or the savage, inbred viciousness of an enraged pit-bull.
Eddie lashed out and caught the dog a powerful blow across the side of the head with the weighty barrel of the gun. Charlie dropped out of the air, dazed, spirit crushed, to turn and run off into the fog with his tail between his back legs.
The sight of the stranger striking Charlie spurred Malcolm into action. Over many years as a fisherman working on a trawler, he had had his fair share of brawls. He was still naturally strong; a man of the sea, who had faced men with knives and broken bottles, and survived the worst storms that nature could throw at the small but robust boats he had crewed, before skippering his own. He took a swing, knowing that if his large, scarred fist made contact, then the much younger, smaller man would have his lights put out.
Eddie reacted; felt the rush of air pass by his cheek as he dodged the blow. The old man made a half turn and tottered forward, and Eddie pushed the muzzle of the gun up against his thick coat and pulled the trigger.
Shit! He should have just knocked him out. There was no way he could stage an accidental fall from the cliff top now. A corpse with a bullet hole in it would instigate a murder inquiry, and he could ill afford the attention that it would generate.
The blast was dampened by the dense fog, the layers of clothing that Malcolm was wearing, and the fact that the gun’s muzzle had been pressed up against him, further helping to absorb the sound.
Malcolm was driven back, to fall and roll over like a breeze-blown leaf. He came to a stop on his side, legs twisted unnaturally over each other, and with one arm trapped beneath him and the other clawing at the earth. He thought that he had been punched hard in the ribs. There was sharp pain and tightness in his chest. He tried to get up, made it to his knees and then fell back down. Working his mouth, he knew immediately that the warm salty taste was blood. Jesus, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and felt dizzy. Then the knowing seeped into his brain as he looked up to where the young man stood holding the gun. He felt death touch, grasp, enfold and totally encompass him, and knew with fearful certainty that this was the end. A deep melancholy overcame him. What would become of Charlie? His heart pained him, then stuttered, missed a few beats, began to erratically beat again. Scant seconds later, that seemed to last for an eternity, Malcolm had a radiant vision of his late wife, Amy, standing in a sea of pure white lilies, beckoning him, before he died where he lay as his ruptured heart became still.
Dawn made her move. Found the strength to regain her feet, and ran headlong at Eddie. If she could knock him off balance, then it was only yards through the open door to the inviting grey curtain of fog. Once in it, she would be hidden from him.
Eddie saw the movement from the corner of his eye, whipped the gun round and loosed another bullet. Fuck it! She was more trouble than she was worth.
Jack heard the first muffled shot. Kept low and came through the doorway, searching for his intended target, just in time to see the cloud of red mist blossom from Dawn’s head. It looked almost black in the flat, grey light. She dropped to the floor with a thud of finality. The shock froze Jack for an instant he could ill afford. The pause gave both men the chance to stare into each other’s eyes, before Jack snatched a shot.
Even though she was waiting expectantly, Lisa jumped when the phone rang. After emitting three tinny seconds of Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours it became silent again. It had been Eddie McBride in the Merc. She rang the Yard, was put through to the incident room and waited impatiently while DC Phil Jennings patched her through to the chopper that was bringing Ken and the armed response unit to the scene.
“Yes, Lisa?” Ken shouted against the deafening engine noise and the thump of rotor blades.
“McBride has shown up at the cottage, Ken, and Jack is inside, waiting for him.”
There was no point in admonishing Lisa. Jack was pulling the strings. He had obviously always intended to do it his own way. Ken should have known better than to believe that he would follow orders. The hard-nosed bastard had evaluated the situation and decided that he had more chance of getting Dawn Turner out alive from within, than a team who would have to force entry would. And Ken knew that he was probably right. Trouble being, Dawn wasn’t Jack’s only consideration. He did not expect McBride to be taken prisoner. Jack might never admit it, but he had gone there to kill his former colleague. It might turn out looking like a line of duty incident; an action taken as a last resort against an armed, known killer. But Ken and Jack would both know that it had been an execution. This was almost as personal as it could get. McBride had implied that Jack’s son was at risk, and had also murdered Mike Hewson.
“Let’s hope he can deal with it, Lisa,” he said into the lip mike. “Because we can’t bring this bird down anywhere near you. The fog is too thick. Our ETA at your location is going to be another thirty minutes, minimum.”
Nose down, travelling fast, the blocky helicopter flashed west at less than a thousand feet, engines roaring as it chopped through the sky at a hundred and fifty miles per hour. They were closing on Padstow fast.
CHAPTER FIFTY
LISA and Peter watched as an elderly man and his dog emerged from the fog and turned on to the track that led to Bay View Cottage. Within seconds they had vanished again.
“Great,” Pete said. “Now we’ve got Malcolm wandering into a potential bloodbath.”
“Who’s Malcolm?” Lisa said.
“Malcolm Gaskill. He’s a local pensioner who lives in a bungalow just a couple of hundred yards up the road from here. If he sees anything suspicious he’ll stick his nose in. He isn’t one to walk away from trouble. He doesn’t seem to appreciate that he’s the wrong side of seventy. The silly old bugger still thinks he can beat anyone at arm wrestling, and pull nails out of planks with his teeth.”
Lisa opened the door and got out. “I’ll go and stop him. We don’t want him getting hurt for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That isn’t a good idea,” Peter said. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, please, stay here,” Lisa said. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Take my mobile in case Ken or Ryder call.”
“Don’t go near the cottage,” Peter called after her as she pushed her way through the tall bracken and walked across the grassy verge, to jog over the road and disappear from sight.
It was slow going. After a few minutes she heard what she believed to be a gunshot, quickly followed by two more. Seconds later a dog burst into view, running fast, wild-eyed, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth.
“Here, boy. Good dog,” Lisa said, but the collie veered around her without breaking stride.
She carried on, knowing that she shouldn’t. She was unarmed. Keeping to the side of the track she was ready to dive for cover if anyone appeared. This was surreal. She was walking blind. The fog was clinging to her, coating her in a sheen of freezing dampness. The miasma was oppressive, and her mind played tricks, creating shapes and images in the swirling cloud of condensed vapour. It seemed to be alive, ever moving, reforming as she passed through it.
She saw the fence. Grey on grey. The palisade of pointed, wooden planks was less than four feet from her. And then a figure burst free from the fog, gripped her around the waist and bundled her away from the cottage.
Jack spun back behind the jamb of the door as a bullet thudded into it just an inch from his face, sending splinters of wood into his cheek and neck. He had fired too quickly and let the gun barrel come up. In doing so, the bullet he had intended to hit Eddie in the chest with had gone over his head.
Kneeling down, he looked out from a point lower than he would be expected to appear from. Eddie was no longer there. Jack ran out into the hall, leapt over Dawn’s body and kept low as he zigzagged out into the murk.
Eddie was visible for less than a second. But Jack did not fire again. He couldn’t risk hitting the woman he saw with him. Who the hell had been outside, to be caught up in
this and taken hostage? Maybe the wife of the old man, whose corpse he had almost tripped over. But he had a sick to the gut feeling that it wasn’t. He kept jogging as he phoned Lisa.
“Bryant,” Peter said.
“It’s Ryder. Where’s Lisa?”
“She took off. An old man was walking his dog towards your location. She went to turn him back.”
“McBride has her. Let Ken know,” he said through gritted teeth. The dumbfuck copper should not have allowed Lisa to leave the car. He made a mental note to break Bryant’s jaw when he next saw him.
He went after them. But where the hell could Eddie be heading? He was moving away from the road, and there was only sea on both sides of the peninsula. Surely he had been confused by the fog. There was no escape route, unless he doubled back and managed to get past Jack. But he could hear voices up ahead, drifting back to him. He broke into a run, only slowing as the two forms appeared like ghosts at the very limit of his vision. He would keep them in sight and do nothing that would incite Eddie to shoot Lisa.
“You need to know that if you slow me down, or try anything stupid, I’ll just put a bullet through your head, shrink,” Eddie said, now holding Lisa by the wrist, gripping it so tightly that he stopped the blood flow to it. “Who’s with Ryder? And how the fuck did he know where I was going, and get here before me?”
“Mike wasn’t dead. He lived long enough to tell someone that you had a cottage near Padstow,” Lisa gasped, trying to catch her breath as she ran. “He even managed to write your name on the unit floor in his own blood. We just checked out the owners of every likely property in the area, and came up with Robert Corby. Everything pointed to it being you.”
“And who else is here?”
