by Bill Rogers
All the right words, all in the right order. But it didn’t change the facts. A man was dead. An unarmed man. And if she hadn’t chased him onto that motorway he’d still be alive.
‘He’d already killed three people,’ Nick Carter reminded her. ‘Wounded one other. And he’d have killed Mwamba if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘And Carly here,’ Jo said.
‘And Carly,’ he admitted.
Jo turned to her.
‘Where did you learn to do a machine-gun takedown, DS Whittle?’
Carly grinned. ‘You’re not the only mixed martial arts freak in the village, Ma’am.’
‘At least DI Weston took your advice,’ said Gordon. ‘Holed up in a hotel, keeping her head down. Just a shame she didn’t let us, or her colleagues know. Would have saved us fretting. I’ll give her an earful next time we meet.’
All of this was cold comfort to Jo. She was haunted by the look on Clements’s face just before he died. He hadn’t been putting himself in harm’s way. He was trying to get away. Turning his head, a momentary pause in flight, had been an instinctive response to see where the shouts were coming from. Just enough to slow him down. To set him up. To bring him down. She knew from experience that it would be weeks rather than days before she stopped seeing that look on his face last thing at night, or on waking in the early hours.
It was the first of the debriefing sessions. A man had died during a police operation, so the Independent Police Complaints Commission were already involved. Then there was the internal review to prepare for and, more immediately, a press release to agree.
ACC Gates was calling the room to order.
Jo’s phone began to vibrate. She glanced at it surreptitiously. It was Aggie. Well, she would have to wait like everybody else. She switched the phone off and tucked it back in her bag.
Agata swore. ‘Gówno!’
She ended the call on her hands-free and focused on the road ahead. It was an hour since the newspaper had received the call. It had taken another forty minutes for a sub-editor to decide to pass it on.
‘This is an important message for Agata Kowalski. Write these numbers down. Fifty-three, fourteen, twenty-five, forty-nine, letter N. Two, forty, thirty-eight, eighty-four, Letter W.’
The caller, a male, had made the person on the front desk repeat the sequence.
‘Good,’ the caller had said. ‘Now make sure she gets it, an’ tell ’er time is running out. And the we’ver’s not looking good. Not good at all.’
It was only when Agata had played it again and written it down as numbers, instead of words, that she realised what it was. GPS longitude and latitude references. At which point the final sentence chilled her to the bone.
She’d immediately opened Google Earth and entered the coordinates. That took her to a spot in the Delamere Forest, half a mile from a village called Hatchmere. She’d rung Jo from the car, but Jo’s phone was off. Agata thanked her lucky stars that she’d entered Max Nailor’s number in the contacts of her phone. Max answered on the fourth ring.
‘Who is this?’ he asked brusquely.
Breathlessly, she told him, and the reason why.
‘Read out those numbers,’ he said, ‘slowly. I’m recording this, but I’m also entering them into my satnav as you give them to me. Right,’ he said, ‘where are you now?’
She consulted her satnav. ‘Bucklow Hill. It says seventeen miles, ETA twenty-seven minutes.’
‘Listen, Agata,’ he said. ‘This could be a windup – it could be a diversion. It could even be a trap of some kind.’
‘Or it could be genuine and there’s a twelve-year-old girl out there, scared witless and freezing to death!’
‘I realise that. But I can’t allow a civilian to go charging in there, risking her life and that of the girl. I’m already on my way. I’m also going to get Cheshire Police to send a patrol car and I’m going to call for air support. I need you to promise me that you’ll wait at the Hatchmere crossroads. There’s a Chinese restaurant there . . .’ She heard him clicking away. ‘. . . the Delamere Fortune Palace. Wait in the parking lot. And please, don’t do anything stupid.’
Before she could reply, he was gone.
Chapter 78
To the west, the sun dipped below the mountains of Snowdonia, plunging the lanes into darkness. Agata’s headlights automatically switched to full beam, but too late for her to spot the right turn the satnav had been announcing.
‘Do a U-turn now.’
No way. The lane was narrow with hedges on either side. She checked the external temperature. It had already dipped to around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit, and it had begun to rain.
Five minutes later the satnav had her back on track and approaching the Hatchmere crossroads. Up ahead on her left was the Chinese restaurant – a single-storey, yellow-rendered building with red roof tiles.
Agata slowed as she reached the entrance to the parking lot. She imagined the young girl, terrified, abandoned, on the verge of hypothermia, took a deep breath and shifted her foot from the brake to the accelerator.
The crossroads was clear. In the distance, off to the right, were twin white beams and a flashing blue light. She drove straight across, past a cluster of cottages on either side, and into the forest. Trees crowded in from either side, their branches meeting overhead, almost leafless after the ravages of the recent storms. Her headlights threw moving shadows deep into the woods.
Now the satnav was telling her that she’d reached her destination. She pulled over into a leaf-strewn lay-by on her left and stopped. Only now did she realise how ill-equipped she was for this situation. Ordinary shoes, no boots, no proper parka. At least there was the light waterproof jacket she kept in the trunk for emergencies. She reached across to the glove box, took out the flashlight that Jo had persuaded her to buy – the one that doubled as an emergency escape hammer – and got out of the car.
The rain was relentless. Despite the cover from the canopy of branches, her hair and clothes were already soaking by the time she managed to pull on the waterproof. She stood there, shining the torch into the woods on either side, realising that she had no idea in which direction to go.
Above the wind whistling in the trees and the patter of the rain on her hood, there came a new sound. The whup, whup, whup of an approaching helicopter. Agata looked up. A fierce beam of intense light was slicing through the trees, moving steadily closer. She had to shield her eyes as it hovered overhead, capturing her like a moth in a lamp, before slowly moving away to her left.
Turning her body towards the direction in which the helicopter was moving, Agata trained the beam of her torch on the ground ahead of her. She made out a narrow path, thick with fallen leaves, that led between the trees and disappeared into the bushes ahead. As she plunged into the forest, she was vaguely aware of more white light and blue flashes strobing the road behind her.
The going was hard, the ground uneven. Straggly undergrowth tugged at her jeans and branches slapped her face and body as she shouldered her way through.
The helicopter had stopped and was hovering. There were shouts from behind her that were barely audible above the wind and the sound of the chopping blades.
‘Police! Stop! Wait.’
She soldiered on. The trees were thinning out. Suddenly she found herself on the edge of a slight bank above an extensive area of naked wetland, shimmering in the downdraught from the helicopter overhead. Unable to stop, Agata tumbled down the bank. She inhaled deeply and readied herself for the shock of icy water.
She landed with a thump. Her body sank a little and there was a sucking noise. It felt as though she’d landed on a mattress and gently been expelled. She placed her hands on the ground and sat up. She was sitting on a bed of wet peat. And there, forty yards away, in the centre of the searchlight’s beam, was a heap of green tarpaulin.
Agata scrambled to her feet. One moment she was bouncing as if on an infant’s trampoline, the next pulling her foot from a hole full of sta
gnant water. Finally, she was there.
The downdraught caught her mid-stride and sent her sprawling on top of the tarpaulin. There was a squeal of protest. A sharp blow to Agata’s ribs. She pushed herself to her feet and pulled the tarp away.
Melissa was huddled in a foetal position, swaddled in a dirty parka three times her size. Her lower legs were visible, covered by school uniform trousers. One foot was shoeless, the sock dirty and sodden. Her eyes were closed tight and she was shaking violently. Agata knelt and cradled her in her arms.
‘It’s alright, Melissa,’ she said. ‘You’re safe now. There’s nothing to worry about.’
The helicopter swung away towards the furthest margin of the pit and began, ever so slowly, to descend.
Torches stabbed the darkness. Two police officers appeared.
‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do,’ said one.
‘Leave it, Robbie,’ said the other. ‘Can’t you see the state they’re in?’
He knelt down beside them. In his left hand he held an inhaler.
Agata would have thanked him, but her teeth were chattering and the words would no longer come.
Chapter 79
DAY EIGHT – MONDAY, 23RD OCTOBER, 9.50 P.M.
‘That was fantastic!’
Jo licked the last of the crème brûlée from the back of her spoon and placed it in the dishwasher. Then she closed the door and switched it on. ‘And you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. Helping me to get my place straight was above and beyond.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Aggie. ‘I love cooking. And let’s face it, neither of us really wanted to go out.’
Jo encircled Aggie’s waist with her arms and kissed her. Gently at first, and then with a passionate intensity that was reciprocated, and surprised them both. Jo could feel Aggie’s heart beating against her breast like a trapped bird.
‘Sorry,’ she said, releasing her grip and stepping away.
‘Don’t be,’ said Aggie. ‘I needed that and so did you.’
They went through to the lounge.
‘There’s a drop left in this,’ said Jo, raising the bottle of champagne Aggie had bought at Booths to christen the apartment.
‘You have it,’ said Aggie. ‘I have some wine left.’
They sat on the sofa with their glasses, still bathed in the afterglow.
‘Max was not best pleased,’ said Aggie.
‘You did the right thing,’ Jo assured her. ‘It’s what I would have done. Anything could have happened to her.’
Aggie took a sip. ‘But she’d been lying out there for over two hours. I don’t understand why she didn’t just walk back towards the road and flag down a car? That’s probably what her captors expected her to do.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Jo told her, ‘when you’ve been held against your will. Isolated, disoriented, frightened you’ll get even more lost. Maybe she reasoned it would be easier for us to find her out there in the open. Maybe she just felt safer.’
‘Perhaps they warned her not to move?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How is she?’ Aggie asked.
‘Remarkably well under the circumstances. She’s had her first session with a specially trained child counsellor. We know that she wasn’t physically harmed or sexually abused. It’s all about her mental and emotional recovery. Her mother’s taking her on a vacation to Disneyworld next week, against professional advice. She’d be better off back at school with her friends.’ Jo sipped her champagne. It was slightly flat and very dry after the crème brûlée. She set the glass down on the coffee table. ‘It’s going to take a long time for her to get over the experience – if she ever does. She’s not talking to her father apparently. Blames him for the whole sorry mess. I doubt their relationship will ever be the same again.’
‘Are you any nearer to finding out who took her?’ Aggie asked.
‘No. The most likely scenario is still that O’Neill was behind it. Steve Yates going walkabout was too much of a coincidence. He almost certainly set up the abduction using a series of burner phones. As soon as it became public knowledge that Darren Clements was our prime suspect they had no reason to hold her. That would explain why Yates turned up at Jason O’Neill’s place.’
‘What did Yates and O’Neill say when you told them that the investigation into the kidnapping was ongoing?’
‘Max did that, but he took me along with him. Yates wasn’t there; Jason O’Neill was. Max told him he’d been lucky thus far, but his luck was going to run out sometime.’
‘What did he say to that?’
Jo made speech marks in the air with her fingers. ‘ “As my father would have said, ‘It isn’t a matter of luck. I didn’t do it, officer. And neither did Stevie.’ ” And then as we were leaving he had the cheek to tell me that he owed me one. Presumably for catching the man who’d murdered his father.’
‘With friends like that, who needs enemies?’
‘That’s what Max said. But with any luck, Forensics will come up with some trace evidence from the farm. Then it’ll only be a matter of time before it’s tracked back to Yates or O’Neill himself. In the meantime, Operation Challenger have Melissa’s father under covert surveillance. They’re worried he’s going to take the law into his own hands, proof or no proof.’
Aggie drained her glass and put it down. ‘I can’t believe that Darren Clements had been planning it so soon after his sister died.’
‘It wasn’t immediate. His father leaving was the trigger. We now know he joined a gun club shortly after that, in Jordan Springer’s name. He bought the air rifle through them.’
‘But I thought he had an air pistol at the Trafford Centre?’
‘He did. But it was the rifle he’d used for all the others. We found that in a homemade rack underneath the workbench in the garage he was renting.’
‘Where are you up to with the IPCC investigation, Jo?’ said Agata.
‘That could take months. They may throw a few recommendations around, but I doubt there’ll be any serious outcomes for me. I’ve already been told there’s no question of criminal proceedings.’
‘I should bloody well hope not.’
‘There’s always the possibility of a civil prosecution in cases like this. But the father has already made it clear he won’t go down that route, and so has Clements’ mother. He’s had enough pain in his life and more than his fill of the justice system. He just wants to be left in peace and quiet, together with his dog Sandy in that little cottage in the Yorkshire Wolds.’
‘Talking of peace and quiet,’ said Agata, ‘when did you last take a vacation?’
Jo had to think about it. She certainly hadn’t taken any beyond the national holidays since joining the NCA. Harry Stone had actually reminded her about it.
‘Sometime last year?’ she said.
‘You must have a mountain of leave entitlement?’
‘It doesn’t work like that. You can only carry over statutory leave. But I know I’ve got at least twenty-eight days to take before March 31st. I hadn’t really thought about it, what with the change of job, the divorce, moving apartments.’
She tucked her legs up beneath her on the sofa.
‘Then it’s time you did,’ said Aggie. ‘Why don’t you take a couple of weeks? I could come with you.’
‘Together, you mean?’
‘Obviously. I’m self-employed. There’s no immediate time limit to the job I’m on at the moment. And I could do with a rest myself.’
Jo thought about it. ‘I’m on gardening leave. I’m supposed to book some counselling sessions – HR wanting to cover their backs in case I lose the plot. But that’s not a problem. I know my boss will back me up.’
‘There you go then.’
Agata glanced at her watch. ‘Is that television operational?’ she asked.
‘The guy who delivered it set it up. Why?’
‘Do you mind if we have the news on? I have this need to watch it every day. It’s almost an addic
tion. It comes with the territory.’
Jo picked up the remote from the coffee table.
‘I think you’ve missed the National news,’ she said. ‘But you might just be in time for the Regional . . .’
‘And now, for the North West news. Earlier, we brought you the latest update following yesterday’s dramatic and fatal climax to the hunt for Darren Clements, the serial killer dubbed by some the Poison Pellet Perpetrator.’
Agata shook her head in disgust. ‘The populars love their alliteration. Further confirmation that they lack imagination.’
‘Populars?’ said Jo.
‘You can’t call them tabloids any more. Because the heavies like The Times and the Guardian have all gone down that route.’
‘Here we go,’ said Jo, pointing to the screen.
Henry Mwamba stood in front of the Kingdom of Heaven Church of the Mustard Seed in the glare of video-camera lights, grinning broadly, a microphone thrust in front of him. It looked as though most of the congregation were assembled on the steps behind him.
‘Our Chief Reporter, Derek West, is with Mr Henry Mwamba, who we understand was the next target for Clements, and who is the grandfather of Françoise, the little girl taken hostage by the killer. Go ahead, Derek.’
‘Mr Mwamba. We have had hundreds of tweets from members of the public and comments on our website, full of admiration for your bravery in carrying on as normal despite having been warned that the killer had his sights set on you . . .’
‘Huh! Brave?’ muttered Jo. ‘More like arrogant and reckless.’
‘Tell us,’ the reporter continued, ‘how you felt when confronted by Darren Clements in the parking lot at the Intu Trafford Centre?’
Mwamba gave a broad grin. ‘Never for a moment,’ he said, ‘did I doubt that the Lord would keep us safe!’
‘Amen!’ shouted some of those behind him.
‘I prayed to the Lord for salvation and He heard my prayer.’
‘Amen! Amen!’
