The doctor shrugged. “Tall order, but we’ll give it a good bash.”
“See to it, Frank.” As Barker and Anderson left the office, Sam concentrated on Drake. “Do you have any other ideas?”
“Only one. Lenny Pearson at the Bellevue. You’ve never properly searched his place.”
She was puzzled. “We’re looking for a police officer—”
“True. But Barbara Shawforth was murdered at the Bellevue, and Pearson was the first to find her. Listen to me. You may have tracked down a police officer responsible for the killing of Alex Walston, and by default, Marc Shawforth, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the same person murdered Barbara Shawforth and Olivia Bradley. All I know for sure is that it wasn’t Rachel Jenner. Trust me, search the Bellevue.”
Sam glanced up at Czarniak. “Grab a couple of uniforms. Take an enforcer with you and break in if you have to. Tear the place apart if you have to.” Czarniak left, and she focused once more on Drake. “What the hell is he supposed to find?”
“Barbara Shawforth’s knickers.”
Chapter Forty-One
With a scream of animal terror, Pearson crumpled to the dirty carpet, and as the blood seeped from his punctured arteries, his cries subsided to a whimpering, burbling moan.
The killer bent to check that he was, indeed, dead, but at that moment, the electronic entry-call system buzzed for attention.
“Mr Pearson. Police. Open up or we’ll break the door down.”
Damn and blast! How had they got here so quickly? No time to make sure the job was done. Time to leave before they really did smash their way in.
One glance down at Pearson was enough. Even if, by some miracle, he lived, he would be a vegetable, and a man who could never speak could never tell what he knew.
The killer had come in through the rear door, and fled the same way. The car was parked on the seafront. Every traffic warden in Landshaven knew the registration. They wouldn’t dare to put a ticket on it.
Two down, two to go. Two dead, two more people to silence, and peace would descend at last.
***
Czarniak was out of patience. He had buzzed twice with no response, and Sam’s orders rang through his agitated mind.
“Break it down,” he ordered.
The uniformed officer alongside him drew back his enforcer, the short, stout battering ram deployed to gain entry. He slammed it forward into the upper glass pane of the door. The wire-reinforced glass cracked. He slammed the enforcer at it again, and a third time, and the glass shattered inward. His colleague reached in, found the lock, and twisted it back, then shouldered the door open.
They rushed in, the uniformed men ahead of Czarniak, shouting and screaming as loud as they could, deliberately making as much noise as possible in an effort to disorientate whoever was inside.
The sergeant hurried after them, along the lower ground corridor, to Pearson’s living quarters, where they stopped dead.
Pearson was a dying mess sprawled on the floor, one hand reaching out to a bunch of keys. His neck was crooked at an awkward angle, and a large pool of blood had developed beneath his ragged shirt. Saliva dripped from his open mouth onto the filthy carpet, and his fingers, reaching for the keys, could only twitch.
Czarniak crouched over him, and pressed a finger gently to his neck. “He’s still alive. Christ knows how long for. Get an ambulance. NOW!” He returned his attention to the prone man. “Just take it easy, Mr Pearson. Medics are on their way.”
The twitching fingers stopped for a moment, his hand clenching into a loose fist, and then one by one, he raised his index, then middle, then third finger.
“Three,” Czarniak said. “What about three, Mr Pearson? Were there three attackers?”
Pearson repeated the gesture, closing his fist, and then raising the three fingers one by one. And then he slipped into unconsciousness, and lay, not moving, his breathing shallow.
Czarniak fretted. “Oh, Jesus, no.”
“Ambulance on its way, Sarge.”
He took out his phone and called Sam. As he waited for an answer, he snapped, “Get on the horn to them, and tell them if they don’t move their arses, we’re gonna lose him.”
***
In Sam’s office, chaos reigned. At the same time as Czarniak’s call came through, another telephone trilled for attention. Iris Mullins snatched up the second receiver and the two conversations went ahead.
“Stay with him,” Sam ordered her sergeant, “at least until the ambulance arrives, then secure the property.”
“I understand. I’ll pass the message on,” Iris said into her phone.
Sam cut the connection to Czarniak, and reported, “Leonard Pearson, shot, barely alive.”
“That was Frank Barker, Dominic Larne, shot dead,” Iris reported.
“Shit.” Alongside them, Drake appeared angry but unflustered. “Sam. It’s Trentham.”
“What? How do you—”
Drake cut her off. “All along he’s insisted that Rachel is guilty. Even in the face of the most contrary evidence, and who had better access to that pistol than him? It probably never went into the sealed container in the first place.” He urged them to believe him. “His next target will be Rachel. She is the only one who might tumble him. You need to get people out to her.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, no.” Sam snatched up the phone and called the front desk. “Enright. All available units to Hayley Killeen’s place. Twenty-three Mount Street. Tell them to move it.” She threw down the receiver yet again, snatched up her jacket, and got to her feet. “I’m on my way there. Wait here.”
Drake rushed out with her.
“Wes, I said—”
“He’s armed. You think I’ll leave you to face him alone?”
“You go, Sam, Wes. I’ll man the phones,” Iris volunteered.
They dashed from the room and along the corridor, where Sam decided she did not have time to wait for the lift. Instead, with Drake on her heels, she hurtled down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, until they arrived on the ground floor, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Drake slammed his way out to the car park exit, Sam right behind him, and ran to her car.
As he took the passenger seat, she leapt into the driver’s side, fumbled the key into the ignition, started the engine, and knocking off the parking brake, reversed out, spinning the car through ninety degrees, then throwing the opposite lock on, slamming the transmission into ‘D’ and tearing off out of the car park, onto the street, her fingers dancing over the switches to put on emergency lights and flashing headlamps.
Tearing along the inner ring road, zigzagging through traffic as it moved out of their way, she engaged her radio.
She was furious that she had not seen it before. But this was a clever opponent, one who had successfully misled her (and everyone else) from the moment they met.
The doctor’s words rang through her head. I bumped into him as he was on his way out of the building…
She barked into the radio. “Attention all units, attention all units. This is Chief Inspector Feyer. I’m on my way to Mount Street, ETA three minutes. On no account must Chief Superintendent Trentham be allowed access to the Killeen home. Repeat, if you see Chief Superintendent Trentham, detain and hold him until I get there.”
She tossed the microphone to Drake in the passenger seat, and with a glance at the satnav, threw the car into a screaming left turn onto Fraisby Road, and floored the accelerator.
***
Trentham ambled along the pavement, and turned into the short drive of number 23 Mount Street, an upmarket townhouse in a moderately well-to-do street.
PC Angela Winters moved across the door, and touched her bonnet in a vague impression of a salute. “I’m sorry, sir, but we have orders not to let anyone in.”
Trentham smiled benignly. “And do you really think those orders apply to me, Constable? I need to speak to Mrs Killeen and Mrs Jenner. Now kindly move to one side.”
She g
lanced at her partner, PC Dwayne Morgan, who shrugged. How were they supposed to prevent access to their station commander? Angela moved away from the door.
“Thank you.”
Trentham pushed open the door and crossed the threshold. He had barely stepped inside when PC Winters’ radio burst into life.
“Repeat, if you see Chief Superintendent Trentham, detain and hold him until I get there.”
Sam’s voice alerted the two officers, who turned to confront their chief. The pistol appeared in Trentham’s gloved hand. He spun round, fired a single shot into PC Winters’ chest, and as she crumpled to the ground, Morgan came for him. Trentham shot him in the stomach.
Satisfied that he would not be disturbed, he carried on into the house.
For a solicitor, the house was comfortably but not lavishly furnished. Hayley sat in an armchair by the fire, and Rachel was opposite her, reminiscing over past glories, the days when she and Barbara Shawforth tackled the city of York on a Saturday night.
Both were surprised when Trentham stepped in.
“Chief Superintendent,” Hayley said. “What can we do for you?”
“Very simple, Mrs Killeen.” He brought up the pistol. “You can die.”
***
Sam brought her car to a screeching halt outside the house, and barely taking the time to kill the engine, leapt from the driver’s seat, and hurried along the short drive. Drake was ahead of her. He paused momentarily to look down on the two inert police officers. A scream from inside brought him to his senses and he dashed into the house, bursting into the living room as Trentham was about to shoot Hayley Killeen in the head.
***
Having delivered his threat, Trentham raised his pistol, but Rachel leapt from her seat, and head-butted him in the midriff, forcing him back against the wall, giving Hayley time to throw herself out of the armchair, away from the danger.
Trentham recovered, Rachel aimed a punch, which missed, and he pushed her away. Staggering back, she grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a heavy glass vase full of imitation flowers, which she threw at the chief superintendent. He ducked, it hit the wall, and showered him with glass fragments.
Rachel came again, he raised the gun, and brought the butt down. She lifted her left arm to defend herself, and the club connected with the sickening crack of bone. She screamed in agony, and sank to the carpet, clutching her injured arm, and Trentham turned his pistol on Hayley.
***
As Trentham took aim, Drake grabbed at him by the waist, spun him round, and threw him against the wall. The chief superintendent brought up the gun again, and Drake chopped it from his hand.
The two men stood facing each other.
“Drake.” Trentham’s voice was a hiss of naked loathing.
Drake barely registered Sam’s presence or the sound of patrol cars arriving outside. “Come on, Trentham. Give it your best shot.”
“Are you out of your mind? I came here to arrest Rachel Jenner, and she turned the damned gun on me.”
“Stow it. You took out Larne, you took out Pearson, and you came here to deal with these two.”
A click alerted Drake. He turned his head to the left, to find Rachel aiming the pistol at Trentham.
“Rachel, no.”
It was Sam’s voice, augmented a second later by Hayley’s.
“Rachel, that isn’t the way.”
Drake fixed Rachel’s gaze with his. Her eyes were frantic, focused only on the target, and her hands shook.
“Rachel. Listen to me, Rachel. This isn’t the way. Give the gun to Sam, let her deal with him.”
Tears streamed down Rachel’s face. Her voice was a furious rasp. “I spent four years in jail for that bastard.”
“I know you did. But he’ll spend a lot longer inside.”
She screamed at Drake. “It’s all he deserves.”
Those four words carried Drake back six months, to a half-ruined, decrepit house on the outskirts of Howley, and The Anagramist prone on the filthy carpet, a knife in Drake’s hand, and a desperate Sam Feyer pleading with him.
“It’s all he deserves.”
“But you don’t deserve the life sentence that goes with it.”
He focused on Rachel. She was still crying. “It’s – all – he – deserves.” Each word was punctuated with a choking sob.
Drake held out his hand. “You’re right. But you’ve spent enough time in prison. Give me the gun, and let us set you free.”
She wept openly, and released the pistol butt, swinging it by the trigger guard, letting it fall into Drake’s open palm.
He passed it to Sam, who removed the clip and pumped a single shell from the chamber.
While Trentham was handcuffed by a uniformed officer, Sam cautioned him.
“Neville Trentham, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Dominic Larne, Leonard Pearson, Marc Shawforth and Alex Walston. You do not have to say anything—”
Through gritted teeth, he bit back. “I know the script, Chief Inspector.”
Sam pressed on. “You do not have to say anything, but if you fail to mention something which you later rely on in court, that may count against you. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” She turned to one of the uniformed constables. “You, get an evidence bag.”
Trentham protested to the uniform. “Don’t listen to her. I am your commanding officer, and I’m ordering you to arrest everyone here but me.”
Drake was more assertive. “Do as the chief inspector says, man, get an evidence bag.” He faced the second constable. “And you, get an ambulance for Mrs Jenner and the two officers outside. Move your backsides.”
Even though they were aware that Drake was not a police officer, they hurried to obey.
There was a brief delay while the gun was bagged up and labelled, and Trentham was ready to be led away.
Sam gave the uniforms strict orders.
“Take him back to the station, lock him in a cell. I want him stripped of his clothing, and I want it analysed as soon as possible. No fooling around, no delay, I want that analysis today.”
Trentham turned to face Drake. “Big man now, aren’t you? Now that I’m in manacles. Wouldn’t want to take me on mano a mano, would you?”
Drake thought of Barbara Shawforth, Olivia Bradley, Marc Shawforth, he thought of Rachel Jenner spending four years in prison for a crime she had not committed. He thought of Dominic Larne, Alex Walston, Leonard Pearson, and the two officers on the ground outside. And finally, he thought of Becky, her pretty head severed from her body.
And his fury began to rise.
“Take the cuffs off him.”
“Mr Drake, sir—”
“Take the cuffs off him. Let’s see how big he really is.”
“No.” It was Rachel Jenner protesting. “Don’t do it, Mr Drake. He’s goading you.”
Sam was more persuasive. “Rachel’s right, Wes. We probably have enough evidence, and we’ll send him down for a long time, but if you lay one finger on him, he’ll take you with him, and he’s not worth it.”
Common sense began to permeate the bloodlust. Drake paused, and then barged them, out into the fresh air.
Sam spoke to the uniforms “Get him back to the station. I’ll let DCC Mullins know to expect him.”
Trentham was led away struggling against his restraints, and screaming obscenities at her, and more at Drake.
Chapter Forty-Two
Trentham looked anything but beaten when Sam and Iris Mullins stepped into the interview room a few minutes after three o’clock.
His uniform had been taken and bagged up for forensic analysis, and he remained dressed in a full suit of forensic coveralls. His personal possessions, except for his spectacles, had been taken, and under any other circumstances, he would have appeared vulnerable, but he had about him the air of a man who was not going to go down easily.
Sam was conscious of the time constraints upon them. Arrested at about one o’clock in the afternoon, they
had twenty-four hours in which to question him, after which they would have to apply to the magistrates for a twelve-hour extension, and given the close, clubby atmosphere of Landshaven’s upper echelons, there was no guarantee they would get such an extension.
While waiting for Trentham’s solicitor, a lady named Vivienne Maskin, to arrive, Sam had talked the situation over with Iris Mullins and Drake.
“We don’t have enough. Until forensics come through with the analysis of his uniform and the pistol, he can say whatever he likes, and although he can’t avoid interrogation, he may very well get bail. Can you not have him moved to York, say? Somewhere where he’s not part of the elite?”
Iris shook her head sadly. “You know the rules, Samantha. Unless there’s a threat to the safety of the interrogating officers, or even the suspect, the initial interview must take place where he was arrested, and that means Landshaven. I’ve already made Hugo aware of the position, and he’s promised to have a word with the MoJ to ensure that he doesn’t get bail. For the moment, forget about suspicion, and tell me what charges we can actually bring.”
Sam shrugged. “Attempted murder of Rachel Jenner, and the two officers outside Hayley Killeen’s place. That’s about it. We can’t yet place him at the Bellevue, Larne’s, or Walston’s. We need forensics to get a move on.”
It was a circular debate, one which would lead nowhere until they actually confronted the station commander.
When they entered the interview room, Trentham was in conference with Ms Maskin, and they broke off their murmured conversation the moment the two senior officers took seats opposite them, and Sam set up the recorder while Iris Mullins delivered the opening salvo.
“Chief Superintendent Trentham is entitled to have an officer of his rank or senior present at interview, and as the Deputy Chief Constable, I am fulfilling that role, but as the senior CID officer, Chief Inspector Feyer will lead the questioning.” She honed her attention on Trentham. “You’ve already been cautioned, Mr Trentham, and I need to be sure you understand that you are under arrest on suspicion of murder and attempted murder. You do not have to say anything, but if you fail to mention something which you later rely on in your defence, that may count against you. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2) Page 25
