Creatures of Dust

by Scott Hunter

  “Where’s Moran?” She grabbed Banner by the shoulder.

  “Hey, what do you–”

  “Where is he, Banner? Tell me.” Charlie pushed her way past Banner to where two ARU officers were positioned, weapons trained on the building.

  “Behind the balustrade. With Neads. He’s down – the Chief ordered a shot.”

  Charlie’s heart was hammering against her ribs. “Airey?”

  Banner pointed. Now she could see the medic crouched beside a prone body at the foot of the steps and a tall figure framed in the centre arch. “Who’s injured?”

  “We think it’s Shona Kempster. Moran’s significant,” Banner added with a wink. “Neads has taken a bullet. Moran’s hurt, but he’s just spoken to the chief on his mobile.” Banner looked pleased.

  “This isn’t a bloody paintballing excursion, Banner. What’s Airey doing?” Charlie could hear the note of panic in her voice and Banner picked up on it. He peered closely at her face.

  “God, what happened to you?”

  “I’ll explain later. Give me those.” She snatched the field glasses from Banner’s grip and zoomed in on the balustrade. “Oh God...”

  “What?” Banner grabbed at the field glasses but Charlie’s grip was firm.

  Charlie spun and pointed at the first ARU rifleman. “What’s your name?”

  “Schouten – Mike Schouten. And you are–?”

  “DI Charlie Pepper. I’m working with DCI Moran. Line up a shot.”

  “No way. Neads is down...”

  “Do it. Look at Airey. Look through the balustrade – he’s on his hands and knees...”

  Schouten squinted through his telescopic sight. “Shit. Am I seeing things?”

  “No, you’re not. On my mark.” Charlie put the binoculars to her eyes and watched Airey continue his stealthy movement towards Moran’s motionless body.

  “Wait. You can’t make that call.” Banner took her arm.

  “I’m the senior office here, Banner. I’ll take the rap.”

  “Not until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  “No time.” Charlie waved him away.

  Airey had reached Moran’s side. There was a long, thin blade in his hand. His arm went up. Charlie froze.

  No way …I can’t make this call ... what if...

  But even as she hesitated she saw that Neads, somehow conscious again, had levered himself into a squatting position and was trying to stand up. What the hell was he up to? Charlie held her breath as the ex-sergeant took a stumbling step towards Airey.

  A loud report shattered the silence, the sound of a discharged bullet. For a second Charlie couldn’t work out what had happened. Then she saw the slight Asian girl emerge from the left, a revolver held in her outstretched hand.

  Charlie swivelled the field glasses. Airey was on his back, blood seeping from a ragged hole in the side of his head. The Superintendent’s eyes were open but unseeing. Neads was slumped unmoving against the balustrade. The girl staggered, leaned on the pillar for support. The revolver fell from her grasp and bounced down the steps.

  There was a long, frozen silence. Somewhere in the distance the sound of sirens began, rising and falling like a discordant glissando.

  “Schouten, Banner, you.” Charlie gesticulated wildly at the second Rifle Officer. “Go. Go. Go!”

  “She was aiming at Neads,” Charlie told Banner.. “Never fired a gun before, so her aim was off. Fortunately for DCI Moran.”

  Banner grunted and waved to the ambulance man as he shut the rear doors and turned on his siren. Two one-time lovers within. One in shock, the other fighting for his life.

  Moran had already been whisked away to Bath A&E in the first ambulance. He had been compos mentis enough to give her a weak smile and a wave as they loaded him in. The tough old sod.

  Charlie watched as the DCS from Avon and Somerset trudged wearily down the steps of Beckford’s Tower. He hadn’t been impressed with what he’d found when he’d arrived on the scene. There’d be an inquiry, for sure, and she’d be in the middle of it. Thank God the evidence she’d found on Airey’s PC seemed irrefutable. The message she’d printed off had been sent to an email address belonging to the Ranandan brothers. No defence barrister would be able to explain that one away easily.

  “So,” the Avon DCS said dourly. “You and your commandos can push off back to Berkshire now, DI Pepper. I’ll handle the SOCO activity from here. Of course, you will be expected to provide a full written report to your senior officer within twenty-four hours. And I’d like a copy asap. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it,” Charlie told him. “And sorry about the lack of communication.”

  “Yes. So am I,” the DCS replied with a humourless smile. “Your CC will be hearing from ours in due course.”

  “Sir.”

  Charlie turned away and made a face at Banner, who was deep in conversation with the two firearms officers. They’d fired only one shot; it had been effective, and she hadn’t had to order a second. So that was a result, wasn’t it?

  Charlie turned her back on Beckford’s Tower and retraced her steps to the gate. It was only when she reached the car that the tears finally came.

  “Hello, guv.” The female voice broke into Moran’s semi-conscious state.

  He opened his eyes a crack. So far, so good. Then he tried to move, but that turned out to be a very bad idea indeed. His shoulder and upper arm felt as though someone had stuck a hot branding iron on his flesh and left it there.

  “Such language from a senior officer,” a second, male voice observed. “And in front of a lady as well.”

  There was something familiar about the voice. Moran couldn’t quite place it; his brain felt foggy and stupid, as if it was filled with cotton wool.

  “How do you feel?” the female voice asked.

  Then it came back to him in a rush. Airey... He jerked his upper body in an effort to sit up, but the pain defeated him and he sank back onto the heaped pillows. A hand rested lightly on his good shoulder.

  “It’s all right, guv. It’s DI Pepper. It’s over.”

  Moran groaned a question. “Neads?”

  The hesitation told him all he needed to know. He screwed up his face in frustration. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “Sorry, guv,” Charlie confirmed. “He died on his way here. But Miss Kempster is going to be all right,” she added quickly. “Still in ICU, but doing well. She’s in good hands.”

  “The Royal Berkshire?” Moran asked, knowing the answer.

  “A fine establishment,” the male voice said. “Gets on your nerves after a while, though. Especially the food.”

  Phelps... Moran opened his eyes fully. Sergeant Phelps was sitting in a visitors’ chair in his dressing gown, a folded newspaper in his lap and a biro wedged behind his ear. Charlie Pepper was standing over him, her face lined with fatigue and concern.

  Moran forced the corners of his mouth into a smile. “The RBH and I are old friends, Robert. With my frequency of attendance they’ll soon be naming a ward after me.” He glanced at Charlie. “You’d better tell me what happened, DI Pepper. I have the feeling I’m missing something.”

  Chapter 34

  Mrs Flynn poured a third glass of sherry and walked unsteadily into the empty lounge. Three glasses – one for each week. It had been three weeks since everything had spiralled out of control. Three weeks of tears, three weeks of visiting Ernest in custody, three weeks of recriminations, three weeks of talking to pessimistic lawyers, three weeks of wondering how her life had so rapidly fallen apart.

  Outside the sun blazed relentlessly, slanting through the picture window and showing up the threadbare patches on the worn carpet. They’d needed a new carpet for years, but Ernest had forbidden it. Too expensive. Ironic that now, just as her husband had sanctioned the purchase of a gorgeous oatmeal deep-pile replacement, he wouldn’t be here to enjoy it. For a long, long time. Never, in fact, because he would be in prison, until he died.

 
; She took another gulp of sherry and gazed out onto the airstrip, where a blackened area of grass was all the evidence that remained of the wreck of the light aircraft her daughter had regularly flown. At least Sharron hadn’t been inside when it had taken gentle Mark Barnes to his death. No; her husband had made sure it had been Mark. Her husband had killed the mechanic, to protect Sharron. Sharron, her once lovely daughter, now apparently a corrupt, drug-dealing, embezzling murderess.

  Mrs Flynn started as a tentative cry followed by a loud gurgle announced her grandson’s awakening. Time for another feed.

  Mrs Flynn gripped her glass and fought back tears. There was no one left for the baby, except her. And what did she have to offer? A grieving, ruined woman in late middle-age. She was no company for a growing child; a child needed a mother, someone to cherish and look after him. Boys especially needed their mums, even when they’d grown up. But there was no one. And who was to blame?

  That, at least, was an easy question to answer. The brothers, Jagdip and Atul Ranandan. She’d known from the off that they were bad news. Ernest wouldn’t listen to her concerns – Sharron could do no wrong in his eyes – and by the time the Ranandans were using the airstrip regularly Sharron was probably in too deep to pull out even if she had wanted to. Silly, silly girl. Mrs Flynn set her glass down on the coffee table, and crossing her arms around her trembling body, burst into tears. How could this have happened?

  The baby’s cries grew more urgent. She couldn’t just ignore the little mite, but she wasn’t up to dealing with his demands day and night. She was nearly sixty-five, for goodness sake. She should be taking life easy, relaxing into old age...

  Mrs Flynn sat on the edge of the sofa, and when her tears had subsided she tried to remember where her husband had kept the keys to the gun cupboard. She went to his office and rummaged in the desk drawers. The baby’s escalating cries were hard to resist as her searching fingers eventually found what she was looking for. The cartridges would be in the cupboard along with the shotguns.

  The shotgun cupboard was her husband’s domain. She had never touched a gun before – she had never had the desire or need. But she had seen Ernest and the farmhands using them. It looked quite simple: you broke the gun and inserted two cartridges, clicked it shut, checked the safety switch was off, and that was it. All ready.

  The baby’s wailing reached a new level of urgency; he’d always had a good appetite, even when he’d been poorly with chicken pox. He had, Mrs Flynn thought sadly, the potential to grow into a big strapping lad. A rugby player, maybe, or a footballer.

  She tucked the gun under her arm, as she’d seen Ernest do so many times, and carefully closed and locked the gun cupboard. It wouldn’t do to leave anything to chance. You never knew who might be snooping around these days.

  “I’m coming, darling,” she called. “Granny’s just coming.”

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” the smartly-dressed woman said, rising to her feet. “It helps a little, to know who she worked with. Who her friends were. Thank you again. You’ve been very kind.”

  Moran, groping for suitable words, could only nod and smile a tight-lipped farewell as he watched Mrs McKellar walk out of his office, head held high. Proud and hurting, dying inside. He let his breath out in a long sigh and rubbed his shoulder where the sling was beginning to chafe his flesh raw.

  Charlie Pepper’s attractive features peeped in through his slatted office window. A second later she knocked and came in.

  “Charlie. How are you?”

  “Never mind me. How are you, guv? You shouldn’t be here, you know. You need rest.”

  “I’m all right, Charlie. Weary, aching. Nothing new.” Moran laughed sardonically. Aching in my soul...

  “How was Mrs McKellar?”

  “Brave. Nice woman.”

  “Tough job,” Charlie said sympathetically. “Telling her what happened.”

  Moran shrugged. “Had to be done. So,” he said, wanting to move on, “what’s up?”

  “Sheldrake’s told all. He and Airey go way back apparently – all the way to cadets. Airey was a gambler, did you know? He didn’t look like one, did he? Anyway, he ran up some horrendous debts, and Sheldrake bought him into the gang over a few beers. Didn’t take much persuasion, so Sheldrake says.”

  “Desperate times, desperate measures.” Moran massaged his shoulder again and grimaced. “There’s no accounting for the lengths to which people will go to extricate themselves from their self-inflicted messes. What about the Ranandans? Have we got enough to bring them in?”

  Charlie flushed slightly at the mention of the name. “OK. We have the hard evidence of Airey’s email but the acting Super wanted them kept them under close obs for a few days before we picked them up. He was hoping we might net one or two of their European buddies as well, but no show so far.” Charlie hesitated. “I was just going ask, guv, if Banner and I could do the honours? If you’re happy to authorise it?”

  “I’ll speak to DCS Higginson now,” Moran replied. “I want the Ranandans in custody sharpish before they get any ideas about foreign travel. One thing though, Charlie.” Moran frowned, he hoped in a kindly way.

  “Guv?”

  “Keep your feelings well in check. Don’t let them get the better of you. We all feel the same about Helen and Harding. You can join me in the interview room. If you feel you can handle it.”

  “Oh, I can handle it, guv. Don’t worry about me.”

  Moran studied Charlie’s expression. She would handle it all right, he had little doubt.

  “There’s something else, guv. I just got a call from Denis. Someone’s dumped a baby in reception.”

  “Uh huh.” Moran frowned. “And that’s significant because–?”

  “There was a note pinned to the baby’s carry cot. It’s Sharron Flynn’s baby.”

  “Who wrote the note?” Moran said without thinking, and then the obvious conclusion came to him. “It was her mother, wasn’t it?”

  “Right,” Charlie confirmed. “The note says she can’t cope with the responsibility. Thinks the baby deserves better, but surely she knows we’ll only take him back, so I don’t see–” Charlie broke off as she registered the look on Moran’s face and realised what it meant. “Oh God, she’s going to–”

  Moran was already on his feet and moving. Pausing only briefly to retrieve his stick he grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and spun her out of the office.

  Banner looked up from his desk. “What’s going on?”

  “Get out to the Flynn’s farm, pronto. I don’t think she’ll be there – but then again she might be.” Moran swiftly explained the situation to Banner and then propelled Charlie towards the lift.

  “So; where to, guv?” Charlie guided the car quickly out of the over-populated car park and onto the IDR.

  “Jag Ranandan’s place. Put the siren on.”

  “Guv.”

  Charlie pedalled the accelerator and wove expertly through the traffic queue at the lights until the road opened up in front of them.

  In contrast with the siren’s racket, Moran sat quietly, hating himself. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot...

  Chapter 35

  As she parked near the Ranandans’ house Mrs Flynn’s attention was diverted by a neighbouring garden. Whoever tended the colourful borders knew what they were about; they had done a wonderful job. She particularly liked the contrast between the reds and pinks of the dahlias and the yellow snapdragons, which together formed a crowd of colour that, for a brief moment, made her forget the purpose of her visit. She paused at the garden wall, the weight of the shotgun incongruous in the crook of her arm.

  It had been a beautiful summer – far too hot for Ernest – but she herself had always been a bit of a sun worshipper. Mrs Flynn tilted her head to feel the warmth on her cheeks. Somewhere in the distance she heard the noise of children playing, a bicycle bell, an ice cream van’s discordant tune. It reminded her of her own childhood. Here, with her eyes closed, drinking in the scent of the f
lowers and the sun’s rays warming her flesh, she could be a nine-year-old girl all over again. If only! If only she could go back, rewind the clock, start over.

  She tarried for a few minutes, unwilling to spoil the illusion. Someone across the road closed a window with a bang and she reluctantly opened her eyes. The ice cream van’s jingle had stopped and now she could hear the sound of a distant siren. Her time was up.

  It took only a few strides to arrive at her final destination. She raised her fist and knocked loudly. She heard footsteps approaching. The door opened. Atul Ranandan’s face twisted into a sneer.

  “What do you want?”

  Mrs Flynn could see past Atul’s body to where his brother sat at a table in the front room. The big man. The cause of it all. She could also see the task the brothers were engaged in. Neat bundles of notes were stacked at Atul’s empty place, and Jag, who hadn’t bothered to look up, was busy counting. The house smelled sickly sweet, heavy with the scent of marijuana.

  Mrs Flynn brought the gun up from her side and levelled it at Atul’s stomach. “What do I want? I want an end. I want closure.”

  Atul’s eyes widened and he backed away, holding his hands in front of him as a makeshift but hopeless barrier. “You crazy old–”

  Mrs Flynn squeezed the trigger and the gun leapt. The noise was shocking, brutal. Atul was thrown backwards along the hallway, his chest torn open by the blast. Blood splattered, pebble-dashing the carpet and walls.

  Mrs Flynn advanced, closing the front door behind her with a deft kick of her heel. She stepped over Atul’s body and clicked the gun’s breach lever, ejecting the spent cartridges. Then she walked slowly and purposefully into the lounge.

  Jag had leapt from his chair, but instead of trying to escape or dive for cover he froze as if petrified, eyes darting between his brother’s broken body and the woman in the door frame. He licked his lips and picked up a bundle of notes. “Take it. Take it all.”