Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Charlie.’

  Ed paused, mind playing catch up.

  ‘Charlotte when she’s giving evidence,’ Hunter said. ‘Out here, Charlie.’

  Ed nodded. ‘She’s conscious. Struggling to speak. Maybe rib injuries, but it’s her legs that look the worst.’

  Right on cue they heard the ambulance, siren blaring. It could have been a hundred metres away; it could have been three miles.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ed said. ‘I’m sure they put those bloody things on when they’re going for their bait.’

  Nigel’s initial grin faltered. His turn to be thrown.

  ‘Bait. Food,’ Ed explained.

  Hunter dipped his head in apology. ‘I’ve only been up here a few months. Transferred up from Thames Valley.’

  ‘You’ll soon learn the language,’ Ed patted his shoulder. ‘Bit different for you up here I expect. I would have said quieter but after tonight…’

  Ed shook his head, exhaled loudly, spoke again.

  ‘No shortage of firearms on duty have you? More than us and we’re townies with our fair share of gun-carrying shit-bags.’

  In different circumstances Ed might have made a quip about poachers, but not tonight.

  ‘Plenty out because of this planned operation,’ Hunter said. ‘Not normally this many of us on shift.’

  ‘Listen, if you need anything else from me just shout, but right now I need to get back to my boss.’

  Ed wanted to sprint but his legs and lungs insisted otherwise.

  Small groups were scattered on the road, watching, speaking in whispers.

  Ed wanted to tell them to move back, wanted to tell them there was nothing to see, but decided to leave that to the local uniforms.

  The decision lasted as long as it took him to spot the tall, skinny, forty something with blond dreadlocks, friendship bracelets and sockless, thick-soled walking sandals even in all this rain. He was filming the injured AFOs on his mobile.

  Ed’s anger went up like a bonfire night rocket.

  He chopped hard on the skinny tattooed forearm holding the iPhone.

  ‘Jesus man, what’s your game?’ Dreadlocks said, turning to confront Ed as the phone skimmed across the Tarmac.

  ‘They’re my colleagues you sick bastard.’

  Ed picked up the phone, scrolled through to the photo and video library and deleted everything that showed the scene.

  ‘Hey, you’ve got no right to do that man. That’s a breach of my civil liberties.’

  ‘Really,’ Ed said, handing him back the iPhone. ‘Tell someone who gives a shit.’

  Ed turned, walked away.

  He had taken three steps before Dreadlocks shouted: ‘You won’t get away with it, fascist. I’ll be complaining to your superiors. I know my rights.’

  Ed hid his balled fists in his trouser pockets, carried on walking and thought about Bev.

  Behind him he heard a deep Cumbrian voice telling Dreadlocks – already filming again – his iPhone was going up his arse if he didn’t put it away.

  Ed glanced back to see Dreadlocks scuttling away.

  The send-off got Ed’s full approval and a cheer from what he guessed were stalwarts of an old-school farming community.

  ‘And think about getting some meat down you. Do you the world of good.’

  Ed walked into the pub.

  Sam grabbed the ringing mobile from her pocket and on the illuminated screen read the name.

  Bev Summers.

  ‘Bev?’ Sam said quickly.

  She didn’t dare move in case she lost the signal.

  ‘Sam it’s me. Don’t speak. Just listen.’

  Sam cursed herself for leaving her coat on one of the chairs.

  Behind the bar she scrambled frantically for something to write on and something to write with. Underneath the small window with its daylight view of Place Fell she found a small food order pad and tiny blue pen.

  She glanced at the phone and exhaled relief. She still had a signal.

  ‘I’m okay. I’m out of the car, blindfolded. They’re still with me.’

  Bev was obviously trying to control her words but their speed told Sam she was failing.

  ‘They’re going to dump me somewhere on the mountain. If you don’t try to stop them when they drive away, they’ll tell you where I am. They need four hours.’

  Chapter 55

  Ed walked towards the bar.

  Sam held her arm up, palm facing towards Ed.

  He got the message, said nothing, walked towards her.

  ‘Bev,’ Sam said for Ed’s benefit, putting her device on speakerphone, face up on the bar. ‘Let me speak to Tara.’

  Seconds later and she recognised Tara’s voice.

  ‘What is it you want?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No Whelan? I thought he was the trained negotiator.’

  ‘I can get him.’

  ‘What, he’s stopped running after cars like some deranged dog? Don’t waste your time. I’ll talk to you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Safe passage. Then you can get her back.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  Ed gave Sam the thumbs up. He was now the Number 2 negotiator, offering encouragement. The words, ‘can I’ were much less aggressive than ‘why should I’, but the question needed to be asked.

  ‘You have no choice. I’ll ring you at 1am with her location. You arrest me before then and I’ll not say a word. She’ll die alone and very cold on the side of a mountain.’

  Ed pulled the pad away from Sam, scribbled ‘TOO LONG’.

  ‘Four hours is too long,’ Sam said. ‘She’ll not survive.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Now call the dogs off.’

  Tara terminated the call.

  ‘What now?’ Ed said.

  ‘I need to get in touch with their control room again. We need to get their on-call SPoC out.’

  Each Force has a number of accredited Communications Data Investigators, who are designated SPoCs –Single Point of Contacts – for telephone service providers.

  ‘We need a trace putting on Bev’s phone.’

  The three-litre engine accelerated down The Struggle, the road steep, narrow and winding, hurtling the Jaguar towards Ambleside.

  As dry stone walls flashed by, beads of sweat broke out on the driver’s forehead.

  Even a rally star would find it a battle on The Struggle at speed. Passing a basic test gave you no chance.

  When he lost control on a right-hand bend, the crash was like something a TV movie director might film in slow motion, the Jag suddenly airborne, two tonnes of metal and three jerry cans of aviation fuel in the boot flying over a sloped grass field.

  The front seat passenger screamed and didn’t stop. The driver, knuckle-white fists clenching the steering wheel, said nothing, silent even as the flames consumed them in a fireball that lit up the sullen night sky.

  .

  AFO Nigel Hunter walked into the White Lion.

  ‘How are they?’ Sam asked.

  ‘We’ll find out in a few hours. Hopefully they’ll be okay. I just popped in to tell you that there’s a report of a vehicle on fire somewhere near the top of Kirkstone. Called in by someone leaving the pub up there.’

  ‘Shit,’ Sam muttered.

  ‘That’ll be them,’ Ed said. ‘Where are the fire bobbies coming from?’

  Not a phrase Nigel Hunter had heard before, although he guessed Ed meant firefighters.

  ‘Ambleside.’

  ‘Tell them to be careful,’ Sam said. ‘We know Tara Paxman’s armed. The driver may be as well.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said, walking towards the door.

  ‘We need to find Bev quick,’ Sam said. ‘Problem is, can we believe anything Tara says anymore?’

  ‘Let’s hope Bev’s still got her phone and they’ve sorted the trace,’ Ed told her.

  ‘They have,’ the confirmation from the tall, bald, broad- shouldered detective superintendent stepping through the glazed door.


  ‘Barry Harrison. You must be Sam,’ he said, walking towards her, hand extended, the sleeve of his bottle-green overcoat rising up his arm.

  Introductions over, they all sat, Sam and Ed opting for the long fixed seats.

  ‘Don’t worry about your colleague. We’ll find her,’ Harrison said, his back facing the bar, shuffling to get comfortable on the low, red-topped stool. He unbuttoned his coat.

  ‘A search team coordinator is drawing up plans. He’ll liaise with the Patterdale Mountain Rescue.’

  ‘We’re in your hands,’ Sam said.

  It wasn’t a position she enjoyed.

  ‘I’m already aware of your operation tonight and our cooperation regarding the firearms aspect,’ Harrison continued. ‘Things obviously took an unexpected turn once you got back here.’

  ‘You could say that,’ Sam said, putting her arms, tired and heavy like the rest of her body, on the dark wooden table.

  She relayed the events from the car park.

  Harrison looked at Ed. ‘Thanks for running to help our people.’

  Ed said nothing, nodded.

  ‘I’m waiting for an update on the burning car,’ the superintendent continued. ‘The brigade is there now. The heat is ferocious. Anybody in the vehicle won’t have survived, but the fire itself...’

  Sam leaned back against the backrest before speaking, the beginnings of a headache gathering, guessed what he was thinking.

  ‘Patterdale isn’t Hollywood,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Harrison had leant forward. ‘Cars in the real world don’t just explode. You could fire bullets straight into the diesel tank and it wouldn’t go up, wouldn’t just go bang.’

  Sam nodded, told them how years earlier a driver had died in his burning car because bystanders were too scared to approach.

  ‘They’d all seen too many exploding in the movies,’ she said.

  ‘It didn’t and the poor guy burnt to death when he could have been saved.’

  Stop blabbering Sam. Blabbering is a sign of stress.

  Harrison’s phone rang.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said.

  Sam nodded, picked up a steaming mug of tea courtesy of the owner and looked at her watch. 9.11pm.

  ‘I can’t just hang around here doing nothing,’ she said. ‘What if Bev’s in that car?’

  Sam sipped the tea, considered her words, her thoughts. She spoke slowly, carefully composing each sentence.

  ‘The car exploded. That doesn’t happen in an accident. Barry’s right. So how has it gone up?’

  Sam stared into the bar’s coal fire, the swirling, hypnotic flames dragging her towards a blackness she desperately wanted to resist.

  ‘Cars burn when somebody torches them,’ she said.

  Ed bowed his head, covered his eyes with his hands, tried to push away the images playing in technicolour through his head.

  ‘Let’s just pray it was torched after everybody got out.’

  They both looked towards the door as it opened.

  ‘The phone is on the move,’ Barry Harrison said, bursting in, broad shoulders slumped.

  Neither Sam nor Ed spoke. Whatever Barry Harrison had to say, he wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘And it’s moved too far to be on foot.’

  Chapter 56

  Driving through the market town of Kendal towards the M6, Tara Paxman obeyed the speed limits, traffic signals and road markings. She hadn’t seen any police cars but there was no point in risking attention. Not every police resource would be at Kirkstone Pass, although she suspected the place was keeping most of the Force busy.

  Assumptions, like attention, were dangerous but it was reasonable to believe it would be some time before the fire was out and the vehicle declared safe enough for examination. Identifying the bodies would take even longer.

  Add in the fact the police had no idea about the car she was now driving and Tara felt her cautious optimism wasn’t misplaced.

  Bev Summers had been only too willing to visit the Kirkstone Inn last night, presenting Tara with the opportunity to check if the car was parked up ready for her in case Plan B was required.

  She’d seen the black VW Golf, knew the keys would be taped to the inside wheel arch. Bigger than her VW Polo and very nice.

  The initial plan had been to get tonight over with then sneak off into the waiting Jaguar with Lester Stephenson.

  Everything changed with the exchange in the car park. Parker and Whelan were no fools, but she was still taken aback by the accuracy of their deductions.

  Lester did a good job knocking over the armed police and Summers had been easy to get into the car. She was blindfolded, handcuffed and once in the car park, put in the front seat of the Jaguar.

  Driving through Kendal was a circuitous route. The quickest way would have been to drive along the shores of Ullswater towards Pooley Bridge and head up onto the A66, but that would have meant driving through Patterdale.

  Tara checked her coat pocket, searched for some Kendal Mint Cake.

  She pulled out a phone.

  Bev’s phone.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she shouted.

  Had Bev Summers put up more of a fight she might still be alive.

  ‘I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,’ Sam said.

  Sam, Ed and Barry Harrison were in the bedroom that Tara had been using.

  Asking the owners of the White Lion to close temporarily was one thing, asking them to close for the night altogether different.

  Sam had given them forty pounds, told them to buy everybody a free drink for their inconvenience. She wouldn’t get the money back – imagine trying to submit that ‘expenses form’ – but it would buy her good will.

  The phone signal wasn’t great, but it was enough and Harrison had a police radio. Not that they were much better than phones.

  Sam, itching to discover what was in the car without room to pace the floor, began systematically searching the bedroom and Tara’s belongings.

  ‘I’ve got things to coordinate,’ Harrison said. ‘As soon as I know anything.’

  He left without waiting for a response.

  ‘God, I feel so useless,’ Sam said, dropping onto the edge of the bed.

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘We don’t know if Bev’s on the fells or not,’ Sam said, staring at the oatmeal coloured carpet. ‘Let’s hope for the best, plan for the worst. If one of them from the car has done a runner we need to think about where they’re running to.’

  Ed put his mind to it while Sam went on.

  ‘Firstly, why four hours?’ Sam asked. ‘That’s how long Tara said we’d have to wait to discover Bev’s location.’

  Ed nodded. Four hours was a whole heap of time.

  ‘How far could you get in four hours and where would you safely go?’ Ed said. ‘The possibilities are endless in reality.’

  ‘But they need to get away and hide,’ Sam trying to work it through. ‘Me, I’d be out of the country as soon as I could. Maybe drive to Cairnryan. We’re on the right side of the country. Get the ferry to Belfast. You could get to the ferry port in well under four hours from here.’

  Ed shook his head. ‘You could, but I once took Doris on that ferry. No sailings after midnight. Need to wait until tomorrow morning. And surely she’d expect us to put out an ‘all ports’ warning. She’d know we’d have agencies checking at the borders.’

  Sam flopped backwards onto the bed, eyes looking at the ceiling.

  Where are you Bev?

  ‘I’m thinking about a small airfield just outside York.’

  Sam shot up into a sitting position as Ed carried on speaking.

  ‘You could get there in less than two and a half hours. In four you could have flown anywhere.’

  Sam, hands on knees, leaned forward.

  ‘Why would you think of something so off the wall Ed Whelan?’

  ‘I checked out a small airfield near York.’

  ‘What?’

  She was on her fee
t now.

  ‘More a field with short grass really.’

  Sam walked to the window, watched the reflection of the blue lights, considered the revelation.

  ‘You could have told me earlier.’

  ‘I was trying to piece it together.’

  ‘And what did you piece?’ she asked, turning to face Ed.

  Ed told her about the man he guessed as an ex-RAF pilot and the log book.

  ‘On Thursday 29th a Cessna 152 landed there. Nothing unusual in a plane landing on a private airfield but Brian Banks told me about this one.’

  ‘Brian Banks. You still talking to him?’

  ‘I am. And just as well…you okay?’

  Ed watched Sam sit back on the edge of the bed.

  He’d seen bodies with more colour on the mortuary slab. Sam’s face was drawn, skin translucent, stretched tight as cling film.

  ‘Tired and I’m really worried about Bev. Not being able to do anything to get her back isn’t helping.’

  Ed unwrapped a packet of complimentary shortbread biscuits, handed one to Sam.

  ‘It’ll be good for your blood sugar.’

  Sam thanked him, took a small bite and rubbed her blood-shot eyes.

  Ed filled the kettle in the en suite, sat on the chair while it boiled.

  Sam nibbled on the biscuit.

  ‘Brian Banks knew about the plane. He knew who was coming in on it. It was a dry run.’

  He stood up, poured two teas, gave Sam the other biscuit.

  She put it between her lips, waited for him to continue.

  ‘Marty Irons.’

  ‘Who?’

  Ed explained. Ex-DC Martin Irons who had done time for corruption and now lived in Spain. The Marty Irons who had trousered a fortune out of the timeshare boom.

  ‘He kept in touch with Banksy and they met up for a drink when he flew into the airfield near York. That’s what I wanted to check. I thought I was going to have to ask around but the flight log, or whatever it’s called, meant I didn’t have to.’

  Sam picked up the small white tea cup, stared at the white wall.

  ‘Wonder who Bev had a date with? She never did tell me who the toy boy was.’

  A knock at the door.