Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  He turned on the lights and opened the door to a uniform police officer.

  ‘Mr Thompson. I’m Acting Chief Inspector Wright. Chief Inspector Parker says you have some information about the man who was hit by the bus.’

  Fred invited him in, closed the door and told again how he had seen someone chasing the man who was knocked down.

  ‘Are you sure that’s what you saw Mr. Thompson?’

  Why is he speaking to me like I’m a child?

  ‘Could the other man have been running for a bus?’

  He’s just going through the motions.

  The more Fred thought about it, Wright sounded just like his doctor, softly spoken and full of concern, but here with a huge dose of condescension thrown in. Another copper not interested, just like the ones who are never interested when you ring about the kids.

  ‘He was chasing the man,’ Fred said, ‘I know what I saw, but let’s just forget it.’

  If you showed a fraction of Sam’s interest I’d tell you about the guy threatening me, but I’m not sticking my neck out for the likes of you.

  ‘Mr Thompson, stressful events can play tricks on your mind.’ Wright wore a smile that tried and failed to look sincere. ‘I believe you saw what you think you saw, but whether your interpretation of events was correct, well, that’s a different matter.’

  He still had the smile as Fred opened the door, thanked him for coming and watched him walk away.

  Stressful events? I was a Para. You’ve got no idea.

  The transit was back in the out-of-town lock-up, false plates removed.

  Davy Swan leant against the back doors and tapped out a text.

  Package destroyed but not as planned.

  He pressed ‘send’ then turned to Jimmy Marshall, sitting on an old oil drum, rag still pressed against his head. ‘You need to go to hospital with that.’

  ‘Screw that. Too many questions. You can sort it.’

  Marshall stood up, walked over to an old grey freestanding filing cabinet and opened the top draw.

  ‘Here.’

  He handed Swan an almost empty, dusty bottle of whisky and a desktop stapler.

  Davy Swan jammed the bottle under his armpit and flicked open the stapler. There were a few staples left.

  ‘Lean forward then. Let’s have a look.’

  The wound was deep, four inches long.

  ‘Just as well you’re a bald bastard,’ Swan scowled, no humour just simmering rage.

  He poured whiskey into the gash, grinned at Marshall’s howl, and started with the stapler.

  Eight staples and eight ‘fuckin’ hells’ later he admired his handiwork.

  ‘Good as new,’ he lied, imagining the ugly scar that would be Marshall’s forever badge to fuck-up and stupidity.

  Hard earned and well deserved, shit-for-brains.

  Swan opened his phone at the sound of the text alert

  and read the message.

  Speak later.

  He turned back to Marshall who was tentatively running his forefinger across the staples.

  ‘Why the fuck did you let him get out of the van before I was there?’

  ‘I fucked up. Sorry, but the job got done.’

  Swan put the bottle and stapler back into the draw and slammed it shut.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ he shouted. ‘How many people have you heard committing suicide by running in front of a fucking bus?’

  Marshall bowed his head, the wound like a jagged mountain range.

  ‘None,’ Swan was flying. ‘That’s how many.’

  He kicked the tyre of the van, lit a cigarette and let the rant roll out like river rapids.

  ‘Jump in front of a train yeah, no worries, but a fucking bus! He was supposed to throw himself off the multi-storey and he wouldn’t have been the first. That was the plan; that’s what the Man wanted.’

  Marshall stared at the concrete floor as Swan kept lashing.

  ‘The cops will find the suicide note but shit, even the thickest of that lot will think the whole thing stinks.’

  ‘I’ve said sorry. What more do you want?’

  Davy Swan, for the first time, felt a grain of pity.

  ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to, is it.’

  The magnitude of the police response was like a giant machine plugged into the main frame, every last part oiled and lubricated and moving smoothly into action as personnel from the specialist departments joined the siege operation.

  From top to bottom, everyone knew their role. Major Incident responses were tested in joint high-pressure training drills with other emergency services, the council-led Emergency Planning Department, and sometimes even trainee reporters to make the whole thing as real as possible.

  But nobody could do their job until they were in place and with the right equipment. That was what took the time; that was what caused creaks and groans in the machine.

  Two Technical Support Unit officers – the vital TSUs – arrived at the outer cordon driving the Forward Command Vehicle. From the outside it looked like a family motorhome. Internally it was a mobile communication centre.

  It didn’t take long for TSU to have the command vehicle functioning. A pair of TV monitors showed the live stream from the helicopter and a control room sergeant sat inside to man the designated radio channel for those at the scene.

  Dick Donaldson, Sam, Ed and Gerry Trout were hunched around a table in the vehicle.

  ‘Okay,’ Donaldson said. ‘Ed let’s start with the negotiators. They all here yet?’

  ‘In the back office.’

  The small self-contained space at the back of the command vehicle would be used by the negotiators, away from everybody else, away from interruption.

  Donaldson nodded and continued. ‘Ed, you already know the objectives.’

  Ed nodded. Nothing needed to be said…prevent further loss of life, prevent further harm, bring about a successful resolution. That was always the challenge and always in that order.

  ‘Sam when this is all over, you’re going to be in charge of the post incident investigation,’ Donaldson said. ‘Please don’t think I’m trying to get rid of you, but I suggest you go home and get some rest. Once Ed’s brought this to a resolution, you’re going to be busy.’

  ‘Agree.’ Sam knew he was right.

  She glanced at Ed and saw the tension playing across his face. He would be at the sharp end when it came to any ‘resolution,’ successful or not.

  ‘I’ll discuss firearms options with Gerry,’ Donaldson was wrapping up the briefing. ‘Ed can you go and make contact with Zac?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ed pushed his chair backwards and stood up.

  Donaldson shuffled in his seat then sat up straight, back rigid.

  ‘Be mindful of his psychological state Ed. I don’t want any of Gerry’s team having to pull the trigger if I can help it.

  ‘We’ve both done the negotiators course. I don’t want a ‘Suicide by Cop.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Ed said, walking away.

  Their negotiator training meant they both knew the stats. The first ‘Suicide by Cop’ verdict in a UK Coroner’s Court came in 2003 and made headlines, something new and shocking.

  Ed had been taught to spot the signs; knew the data from American researchers. In 87% of ‘suicide by cop’ cases, the deceased made prior threats of suicide.

  Ed reached the back office. Crammed inside the tiny space were three more negotiators, each with a specific role.

  Ed was Number 1. He would speak to Zac.

  ‘Ready?’ Ed said, squeezing into a plastic chair opposite Sergeant Jenny Smith.

  No words, just nods. They all put on headphones.

  Jenny Smith was there, as the Number 2 negotiator, her role to support and encourage Ed.

  All four, in passing the national negotiators course, had demonstrated the most important quality needed – the ability to listen.

  Jenny pushed her black fringe under her headphones and gav
e Ed the thumbs up.

  Ed dialled the mobile.

  It answered on the third ring.

  ‘Is that you Zac?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The single word was rapid and Ed heard quick, heavy breathing. Panic could easily follow.

  ‘I can see lots of guns,’ Zac panted.

  Ed had anticipated this.

  A negotiator never lies.

  ‘Of course we have guns Zac,’ he told him. ‘People have been shot. We want to keep people safe. We want to keep you safe.’

  Another thumbs up from Jenny.

  Charles Edwards, a Detective Inspector on the fast track promotion scheme, was writing furiously. As the Number 4 negotiator he was the note taker.

  Ed wiped his brow. The body heat from the four negotiators squeezed into the tight, windowless space was sending the temperature soaring.

  Maybe the cords weren’t such a good idea.

  ‘Zac, this can all be resolved by you coming out of the house.’

  Silence but the line was still open.

  Ed, voice quiet, soothing almost, could have been reading a bedtime story to a child.

  ‘How have we got here Zac? What’s happened?’

  Jenny gave him another thumbs up.

  Everyone in the room knew this was the start of getting into Zac Williams’ psyche.

  In the heavy silence, the negotiators waited.

  When Zac Williams finally spoke, his words were hurried and demanding, like a teenager in a strop.

  ‘I want a burger, make that two, with fries and tomato sauce.’

  ‘Okay I’ll ask,’ Ed said slowly.

  ‘Why the fuck can’t you say yes or no?’

  Williams was loud, aggressive but Ed remained impassive.

  ‘I don’t make the decisions Zac.’

  ‘Put the fucker on the phone who does then,’ Williams shouted.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that Zac. You talk to me and I talk to them.’

  Ed was laying the foundations.

  This is how it works Zac. Everything comes through me, but you get nothing from me.

  When he broke another short silence, the edge in Williams’ voice had dulled even if the strop remained.

  ‘I want coke as well. Diet. Two. Large.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll ask. Zac is anybody else in the house with you?’

  The negotiators picked up on the hesitation.

  ‘No’

  ‘What about Lucy?’

  Williams’ response was agitated, words again loud and fast.

  ‘She’s not here. She’s at her mother’s. No more talking until you tell me about the burger.’

  He hung up.

  Ed rose quickly from his chair and pushed open the door. They all craved a rush of air.

  Dick Donaldson, who had been listening on a fifth set of headphones, popped his head around the door frame.

  ‘Good work everybody. The burgers are sorted and I’ve got crews out looking for Lucy. Let’s see if Zac is telling the truth.’

  Jules Merson, the youngest negotiator, was writing on the whiteboards. Her role as Number 3 was to keep the boards up to date.

  She had three columns, each with a title.

  What do we know?

  What do we need to know?

  What have we done for the Subject?

  The board acted as a quick visual for Ed.

  Ed raised his arms high above his head, stood on his tiptoes, and finally asked the question everyone had been thinking. ‘Why is he dressed as a white rabbit?’

  Chapter 8

  Sam drove into the town centre, parked the car and called Fred.

  She walked past the scene of the fatal, the road still closed while traffic officers took photographs, searched for tyre marks, measured distances. The body had been removed, although the bus was still in situ.

  A traffic officer approached Sam with a smile. ‘Alright boss.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said, trying to remember his name. Jim? John? She gave up. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Didn’t stand a chance.’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Running in front of a bus is never a good idea.’

  ‘Any ID?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Nothing on him. No wallet or anything. His clothing’s been searched at the mortuary.’

  ‘Strange, not having anything on him.’

  ‘Nothing apart from a suicide note in his pocket.’

  Sam had been looking towards the bus but now she snapped her eyes back.

  ‘What does that say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it. Just what I’ve been told.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam said. ‘Thanks. I’m just popping into Thompsons, the newsagent, check on how they are. I know Fred witnessed it.’

  Sam didn’t have to tell him what she as doing or where she was going, and the PC was never going to ask, but the decision had been deliberate.

  She knew it would get back to Wright.

  Sam took five steps, turned around and asked: ‘Any suggestion he was being chased?’

  The traffic officer almost snapped to attention, hands by his sides, the instant reaction born of self-preservation when a boss was asking a question and you didn’t know the answer.

  A headshake and an open mouth followed by a six-word reply.

  ‘None that I am aware of.’

  Minutes later she was sitting in the kitchen, Fred’s empty plate, stained with grease and brown sauce, in front of him.

  Still alert and physically fit for his age, Fred told Sam and anyone else who would listen the ‘five a day’ message was a sham perpetuated by the ‘nanny state’ and the ‘swampy type tree huggers’ who would have everybody living on nuts and berries. The only vegetables he ate were potatoes, carrots and peas.

  ‘Good enough for my parents and grandparents. Got through the war on them they did.’

  You and Ed Whelan should form a club.

  She glanced around the room with its units and décor from the set of a seventies sitcom and smiled as she sat down. The kitchen had never seen spaghetti or garlic bread, all ‘Johnny Foreigner muck’ in Fred’s eyes. Fish and chips, battered in beef dripping, was the only take-away that crossed the threshold. Indian and Chinese was not for the Thompsons. Even on his foreign tours with the Paras, Fred had always lived off the food in the NAAFI.

  Refilling the dark brown glazed teapot, Joyce glanced at Sam and the wall-mounted photograph of Fred in his military uniform before carrying the teapot and cups to the table.

  ‘So what happened?’ Sam asked, as Joyce joined them.

  Fred put his hands on the seat of his chair, pushed himself up and sat to attention. He was speaking to someone in authority and would do it with the respect her rank deserved. Old habits.

  He told Sam what he had seen…the man running from the car park, although he seemed to be hobbling on his right leg, the other chasing him, the impact with the bus and the other man turning around and going back to the entrance of the multi-storey car park.

  ‘You sure about him being chased?’

  ‘Not you as well.’

  His eyes dropped, he stared at the table, and fidgeted with the frayed cuff of his cardigan. His voice was quieter but firm.

  ‘Come on Sam. I might not be as a young as I once was, but I know what I saw. Don’t treat me like that other pillock did?’

  ‘Which pillock?’

  ‘The inspector.’

  Sam nodded slowly, realisation dawning, an image of the exchange between Fred and Wright in her mind; Wright paying lip-service and nothing more.

  Pillock is the least of it.

  ‘Why were you on the street?’

  ‘Getting ready to close. Bringing the boards in.’

  ‘On the phone you said the chaser looked like he had been on steroids.’

  Fred nodded. ‘Yeah, not a tall lad, but very broad.

  He told Sam again how the man had confronted him, had spoken with a Glaswegian accent, and what he could remember of his clot
hes,

  ‘Okay, we’ll check CCTV,’ Sam told him. ‘He shouldn’t be too hard to spot.’

  She was getting ready to leave when she saw a copy of The Post folded in half on the kitchen bench. The front page headline was partly obscured but Sam could see enough to fire that inbuilt curiosity again.

  ‘Can I have a quick look?’

  She opened the paper and read the headline.

  MY DAD’S DEATH WAS NO ACCIDENT

  Grieving daughter slams ‘sham’ police investigation.

  Sam’s face didn’t alter but she mentally raced through her recent investigations. She couldn’t recall any unexplained deaths that had been ‘written off’ as an accident.

  ‘Nature calls,’ Fred stood and hitched his fawn corduroy trousers under his green cardigan.

  Sam felt a soft rush of affection when she saw his faded, red leather slippers as he left the room

  Joyce spoke once Fred was gone.

  ‘He’s adamant about what he saw Sam. Adamant. Wasn’t happy with the inspector. Fred might be stuck in his ways but that’s no reason to treat him like a child.’

  Joyce picked up her china cup but didn’t drink.

  ‘I know. I apologise for the officer’s insensitivity.’

  ‘No need for you to apologise pet. You didn’t do it. I’ll make another cuppa.’

  Joyce stood up and smoothed her frayed white apron.

  ‘I could do with a new pinny Santa if you’re listening.’

  Sam unfolded the newspaper, made a mental note to buy Joyce a couple of new aprons, and began to read the story.

  The family of Bill Redwood, the well-known local yachtsman discovered dead in Seaton St George Marina two months ago, is demanding a review into the police investigation.

  Bill’s 35-year-old daughter Megan said her father, a qualified Royal Yachting Association Yachtmaster examiner, would never have fallen between the jetty and his yacht while it was berthed in his home marina.

  Bill’s family and close friends at the Seaton St George Yacht Club have always condemned the speed of the police investigation, claiming it was rushed and focused on a fall and nothing else.