Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam frowned. ‘The newsagent.’

  ‘No. The witness was a pedestrian, a mother pushing her daughter in a buggy. She says she saw the deceased run out of the multi-storey. He jumped over the pushchair, then a squat guy who she was convinced was in pursuit, tripped over the buggy. She saw the first guy get hit by the bus.’

  ‘Did she see where the squat guy went afterwards?’

  ‘No. She was too busy with her child.’

  ‘And the problem is?’

  Not that Sam needed to ask.

  ‘Inspector Wright. Insistent that it’s a suicide and everything else is just smoke and mirrors.’

  Sam watched the mother close the back door and put the shopping in the boot.

  ‘And you think differently. You think like the newsagent, who I’ve spoken to by the way, that he was being chased.’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Okay. Come and see me in the morning. I’ll get a couple of Dees…’

  Dees – slang for Detective Constables.

  ‘to give you a hand with the CCTV.’

  ‘That’ll be great,’ Willings sounded relieved. ‘There are a couple of other things.’

  Sam shuffled in her seat, fighting the wave of tiredness that had sneaked up on her. She just wanted to get home now.

  At least you don’t have to put a child to bed. Only got yourself to think of. Plenty of women have it much harder than you.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He had a SIM card stuffed down his sock.’

  A SIM – Subscriber Identity Module – was part of every mobile phone.

  ‘Really?’ the adrenalin burst pushing back the tiredness. ‘We’ll get that looked at tomorrow. Suggests the deceased was involved in criminality.’

  ‘Forget suggestions,’ Willings paused. ‘It’s Taffy Green.’

  Chapter 12

  Ed swore under his breath.

  The line was dead.

  He hit speed dial, listened to the beeps as the phone automatically worked its way through the numbers.

  ‘C’mon Zac, pick up,’ he said to no-one in particular.

  Nobody in the negotiators’ room moved, eyes flicking between Ed and the phone. They all knew what was riding on the call. If Williams thought the situation was hopeless there would be no peaceful resolution.

  The phones connected. The ring tone began.

  Nothing.

  ‘Pick up,’ Charles muttered, echoing Ed.

  Two more rings.

  Nothing.

  Nobody moved.

  Ed sat opposite Jenny, Charles to the side of her, Jules stood by the board.

  Finally Williams answered.

  Without taking her eyes off Ed, Jules took the top off the marker pen. Then, pen poised, she turned to face the board.

  Williams’ voice was quiet, resigned.

  ‘I’m not coming out.’

  ‘That’s okay Zac. You don’t have to come out. We can talk some more.’

  ‘What about? Lucy?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  Thumbs up from Jenny. She knew Ed had a fighting chance of pulling this back from the brink. Zac was talking again.

  ‘She’s here.’

  Jules’ shoulders slumped; Charles kept his eyes on the pad his face hidden from Ed.

  The same word was flashing like neon in their heads.

  Hostage.

  The tone and pitch of Ed’s voice didn’t alter.

  ‘I thought she was at her mother’s.’

  ‘I lied,’ Williams said, venom behind the snarled words. ‘Get over it. Caught the slut with him.’

  ‘Is Lucy alright Zac, can…’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Williams snapped.

  ‘Can I speak with her?’

  Jenny half-smiled and rotated her right hand in small continuous circles, a sign encouraging Ed to keep going.

  ‘She doesn’t want to talk to anybody.’

  ‘Do you want some more food, drinks?’

  Another nod of approval from Jenny.

  ‘We’re fine.’

  Ed needed Zac to focus on something positive.

  ‘So, what kind of radio-controlled car has Elwood got?’

  The switch was deliberate. Ed hoped the thought of his son might calm Williams.

  ‘Funnily enough a police car. He’d love it here, all these police cars.’

  Ed was relieved to hear the aggression had gone, at least momentarily, but he didn’t want to go down that route, Williams wanting the youngster brought to the scene.

  ‘Maybe when this is all over, we could arrange a trip to a police station. Let Elwood sit in a police car.’

  The words earned an almost audible sigh of approval but like Tyne Bridge starters in the Great North Run, everyone in the room knew the finishing line was still far away.

  ‘He’d like that.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want any food?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing you can do for me. Help’s not coming.’

  Ed shuffled in his seat, eyes fixed on the circular coffee mug ring on the desk.

  ‘What do you mean Zac? I’m here to help.’

  Silence.

  The small room felt even more claustrophobic, tension eating up the space, sucking up the stale air.

  Charles, bolt upright and rigid, allowed the pen to fall from his hand.

  Jules moved away from the board, put both hands on the desk and leaned in towards Jenny.

  ‘Zac?’

  Nothing.

  Ed wasn’t panicking but his heart was thumping.

  He was desperate to talk, knowing, like everybody else in that confined room, that the roller coaster ride had taken another plunge.

  We’re hurtling to disaster here

  ‘Zac?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Zac!’

  This time a thud and the sound of the line disconnecting.

  Nobody breathed.

  Nobody spoke.

  Nobody moved.

  Everyone was caught in a freeze-frame, locked in the moment, breathless and braced for impact.

  Hurtling to disaster

  Realisation crashed into Ed, catapulted him into action.

  He ripped off his headphones and jumped up.

  ‘He’s broken the bloody phone,’ he shouted.

  Jules, flushed and wide eyed, headed for the door to warn Dick Donaldson.

  She was still holding the handle when the air exploded and the ground seemed to tremble, the surge of noise deafening in the taut silence.

  Gunfire.

  Sam resisted the urge for a glass of wine. The crime in action at Malvern Close could conclude at any time and her immediate call-out, like an alcoholic’s early morning shakes, was nailed on.

  Sleep would be a good idea but her head was spinning, the shootings, the siege and Scott Green’s demise flying around, vying for attention. Tossing and turning in bed would only increase her tiredness.

  She curled up on the sofa with a mug of tea and a box of Turkish Delight. She couldn’t be bothered to cook, even if it was the usual microwave for one. Anyway, the phone would go before the ping. Sod’s Law.

  Sam flicked through the TV channels. Strictly Come Dancing and its ‘Spooktacular’ Halloween ballroom battle held no appeal. She would soon be walking into a gruesome scene of death no make-up artist and dancing ghouls could replicate. What she needed now was a distraction not a reminder.

  She hit the off button on the remote, the only light in the room now coming from a couple of lamps. Hundreds of channels and nothing worth watching. There was more to watch in the old days when there were only four channels.

  God I’m starting to sound like Ed.

  She closed her eyes, sleepwalked back to the scene and wondered how Ed was getting on. That he still had the desire to be a negotiator was admirable, but to walk unarmed behind a shield towards a gun was definitely going above and beyond.

  Last month he’d talked a ‘jumper’ down from a bridge, more a cry for help than a serious atte
mpt, but this was an altogether different proposition.

  She picked up the latest ‘must read’ off the small table, a book she’d bought a few days ago from an independent bookshop and opened it at Chapter 1.

  Bev had raved about it, read it in two sittings.

  The voice of Rachel, the alcoholic narrator, tried to get into Sam’s head but Paula Hawkins hadn’t counted on a reader waiting to investigate the scene of a mass shooting.

  Sam gave up and closed ‘The Girl on the Train’ at page seven, vowing to get away for a few days and immerse herself in the book.

  Her brain, a swirling mass of investigative strategies, was too busy processing Lines of Inquiry, mentally preparing ‘To Do’ lists based on the information she had.

  Of course, that could all change.

  No-one knew what secrets the house could be hiding.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Shots fired. Shots fired.’

  Head cool enough to chill ice cream, Gerry Trout’s voice sounded like the pre-recorded message on an escalator telling people to keep right.

  ‘Silver Commander to Tango 1.’

  Fragments of shattered glass, pursued by a metal kitchen stool, flew from the downstairs window and scattered across the path.

  ‘Tango 1. Stand by Silver,’ replied Gerry Trout.

  Light flooded the front room.

  ‘Tango 1. Living room light turned on,’ Gerry said into his radio.

  Ed was out of the small back office listening to the radio traffic.

  Does he want to make himself a target? Suicide by Cop?

  The helicopter hovered, turned on its searchlights, the house and garden were illuminated like a floodlit football pitch; shards of glass twinkled, light reflected off the metal stool, the dancing net curtains of earlier now horizontal in the downdraft.

  ‘Tango 1 to Silver.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Dick Donaldson responded.

  ‘Two shots fired. Stool thrown through window.’

  Donaldson was on his feet in the mobile command unit, voice calm, words brief.

  ‘Silver to Tango 1. Suggestion of at least one other in house. Prepare to implement REP.’

  Whilst Ed had been talking to Williams, Gerry and his team had drawn up a detailed Rapid Entry Plan in readiness.

  The Emergency Planning Unit, with assistance from numerous agencies, had already delivered plans of the house. Two houses in the cul-de-sac, identical in footprint, were rented to students under House in Multiple Occupancy rules. One had just recently had its licence renewed by the local council housing department.

  The REP had been agreed and ‘signed off’ by both Silver and Gold commanders.

  ‘Tango 1, Roger that,’ Gerry replied.

  ‘Silver to Tango 1. Potential for casualties. Potential for murder-suicide.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Gerry Trout’s eyes had not moved from the front window.

  Donaldson was handed a telephone by the communications operator.

  ‘Dick, it’s Monica Teal. Implement the Rapid Entry Plan if necessary. Safety of the public and our officers are paramount. There may be casualties inside needing medical treatment.’

  ‘Stand by, stand by,’ Gerry Trout said into his radio.

  Dick Donaldson and Monica Teal stopped talking, held the phones to their ears as they waited for Gerry to speak.

  The white rabbit had appeared at the window holding a rifle.

  ‘Tango 1. Suspect at window pointing firearm into street,’ Gerry said.

  ‘Tango 3. Have sight of gunman. Suspect shouting. Inaudible.’

  Nobody heard over the noise of the Air Support Unit.

  ‘Tango 1. Appears to be taking aim. Imminent threat,’ Gerry Trout said over the airwaves.

  Monica Teal spoke to Dick Donaldson without emotion. ‘Use of lethal force authorised.’

  He relayed the authorisation over the radio.

  The snap of two quick shots and the rabbit fell backwards.

  Ed was leaning against the side panel of the Mobile Command Unit ignoring the damp clinging to the shoulders of his North Face jacket. Now would have been a good time for a cigarette if he smoked.

  He typed out a text to Sam.

  They’re preparing to go in, clear the house. Zac Williams shot, presumed dead.

  He and the other negotiators were standing in a silent circle, brains in replay mode.

  Charles, hands in trouser pockets, eyes fixed on the Tarmac, was the first to speak. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Hot debrief,’ Ed said, his voice sounding computer generated, barely above a whisper, devoid of inflection or nuance.

  ‘We’ll wait for the coordinator to finish with Silver.’

  The negotiator coordinator was the officer who would assign roles and in lengthy siege negotiations, decide when a new Number 1 negotiator would take over.

  Changing negotiators was a high-risk strategy and the decision to do so was not undertaken without serious consideration: any rapport built up between the negotiator and the subject would have to start again and any mistake by the new negotiator could escalate the situation. Something as simple as getting the name of the subject’s child wrong could have devastating consequences.

  Ed moved off the van and shuffled forward, shrinking the radius of the circle; head down, eyes on the Tarmac, neck disappearing into his ever-more slouched shoulders.

  He moved like a defeated footballer waiting pitch-side for the winning opponents to collect the trophy.

  Ed scanned the ground in vain. Why was there never a stone or discarded can around when you just wanted to kick something?

  He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the blue cords, mentally replaying the phone conversations.

  Could he have done anything differently?

  Did Zac Williams have to die?

  Yes, he’d killed a colleague. Yes, he’d murdered at least two others. Yes, he’d wounded a child.

  But Ed’s job was to talk him out and he had failed.

  He began digging the toes of his right foot into a small hole in the Tarmac.

  Nobody sets out to fail he thought. Nobody gets up on a morning with the intention of going to work and making mistakes.

  But only certain people, certain professions, work in an environment where errors cost lives.

  Ed nodded, raised half a smile, and took the tea from the outstretched arm. He didn’t know who the arm belonged to, didn’t know how long they all stood there in silence.

  ‘You did what you could Ed,’ Sam said, walking towards the negotiators.

  The tea was stone cold, untouched.

  Momentarily back on the parade ground of his training school days, Ed jerked to attention, shoulders back, chest out, body stiff. The stress of the last few hours fired from his pores like bullets from an authorised firearms officer’s Heckler and Koch MP5.

  ‘Try telling that to the firearms team,’ he shouted, aggression taking over. ‘Tell that to the AFO who shot him, at best suspended from carrying a gun, maybe suspended from the Job.’

  Sam didn’t interrupt. Sometimes it was better to let people vent when nerves were frayed. Bollocking Ed for his outburst would help nobody. She let him continue. He was on a roll now. Best let him get it all out.

  ‘Investigation into whether the shot was necessary, lefties screaming for cops to be put on trial for murder. Politicians no fucking better. Bottleless bastards; never had to make a critical decision in real time. Run a mile from an angry man. Fucking wankers the lot of them. All the shit that follows a police shooting, and it was my job to stop it.’

  None of the negotiators spoke but they were all thinking the same.

  Sam took Ed’s elbow and walked him away from the others.

  Her words were soft, sugar coated.

  ‘Sometimes Ed you can’t do anything. Sometimes you enter a battle you never had a chance of winning. You know that. Everybody will be re-evaluating what happened here tonight…negotiators, Gold, Silver, Firearms…everybody.’

&nb
sp; She stopped walking and turned to face him.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean anybody did anything wrong. He’d killed at least three people. Maybe there’s more in the house. If he became a threat again, that threat had to be eliminated.’

  She looked into his eyes, saw the film of water in them. ‘We didn’t start this you know.’

  Ed looked away, nodded.

  ‘How’s things at home?’ she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

  Ed didn’t turn his head, the words cracking in his throat like dry twigs under a hiker’s boot. ‘Same old, same old. I’m thinking of leaving.’

  Sam’s expression remained passive. Highly charged, stressful situations ignite emotions in people that die out like a coal fire when things return to normal.

  Ed cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I used to think SNAFU was limited to the Job, but it’s not.’

  It was an old police and military acronym – Situation Normal All Fucked Up.

  Ed turned his head. ‘My house is the capital of the State of SNAFU. I’m not that long off retirement and the thought of being in that house day in, day out, scares me shitless.’

  Sam gave her best empathic smile and nodded, considering her words carefully.

  ‘Look you’re tired. I’m going to be here all night. If you want, you can go to mine and get your head down. Do your hot debrief with the negotiators, the higher-ups might want a joint one with the negotiators and the firearms team as well, then get away.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Use the back bedroom. There are clean towels in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. Help yourself to tea, coffee, whatever you need.’

  Sam produced a spare key from her purse.

  Ed’s brow concertinaed.

  Sam smiled at his obvious bewilderment.

  ‘I always carry a spare these days. Lost count of the number of times I’ve been locked out after a drink straight from work. Car keys on my desk, house key attached.’

  For the first time since his arrival at the scene, Ed gave a genuine smile.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He took the key from her hand.

  Chapter 14

  Less than an hour later the house was deemed ‘clear.’