by Dan Laughey
‘Precisely,’ Sant said, slapping a pint-sized hand on his chair arm. ‘All we need to do is find the informant, who should lead us to a motive and a perp.’
Holdsworth leered, spreading her arms theatrically. ‘You make it sound so easy, Carl.’
Capstick adjusted his specs. ‘The key question is: who is the killer? And why did he kill practically everyone else on that bus as well as Dryden? That isn’t so easy to explain. Maybe Dryden wasn’t the target – just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘You’re right to speculate,’ said Sant. ‘We can’t assume anything hard and fast. But the main action kicked off on the upper deck of that bus. It must’ve been up there where the intended victim was fired at. Which makes the odds two-to-one against Dryden given we have three dead on the upper deck.’ He fumbled with something in his pocket. ‘The perp killed those three first and then made good his escape from the bus, though not before shooting dead anyone who could recognise him subsequently.’
‘Including the driver,’ added Holdsworth.
‘Right. He had to confront the driver in order to get him to open the doors, which left poor Brian Simpson a no-brainer for a bullet in the head. He was doomed. So were the others. No-one would get out alive. Let’s hope the two blokes in intensive care survive to tell the tale.’
‘Even if they do,’ said Capstick, ‘what chance have they of remembering what happened moments before they got a bullet for their troubles?’
‘Weren’t the survivors found to have no shot wounds?’ Holdsworth put in.
‘Right again,’ answered Sant. ‘Stick to the facts, Capstick. Facts are all we’ve got. Let’s not muck about with them.’ Capstick muttered an apology, his cheeks reddening, his eyes not registering Holdsworth’s suppressed laugh. ‘They were lucky to avoid the bullets according to Wisdom. Sadly, both suffered severe blows to the head. They were flung several yards down the bus on impact. The likelihood of recall is slim.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Holdsworth. ‘The human brain is remarkably resilient.’
Sant nodded. ‘Right now, memories are the least of those men’s worries.’
‘Who’s leading the investigation?’
‘Haven’t a clue. We were his closest colleagues at the time of his death so don’t expect a free lunch any time soon.’
The pattering of hurried feet grew louder from the corridor outside.
‘The Old Man with his division of labour,’ muttered Holdsworth.
Right on cue, Gilligan’s head appeared at the door. ‘Inspector Sant, conference room in five. And be smart! Every news organisation and its dog are sniffing around out there.’
Sant was taken aback. ‘What about a briefing first?’
‘No time.’
‘But what am I supposed to say?’
‘Nothing. Leave the talking to Lister and Hardaker.’
No sooner was the Old Man there than he was gone.
‘Talk about a put-down,’ Holdsworth remarked, tapping a finger to her nose. ‘Clearly the big-wigs are looking after number one, Carl.’
‘At least they’ve invited me to the party, Holdsworth, but if they think they can keep me quiet they’ve got a shock coming their way.’
They swapped brief smiles as he grabbed his Sunday-best jacket and walked out, adjusting his black tie for the media circus ahead.
He sat at the end of a long table. At the other end was Gilligan, fiddling with a mic in the fashion of a fading rock star. Between Sant and Gilligan perched the men in charge: master of ceremonies Chief Constable Edward Lister and coordinating officer Superintendent Harry Hardaker. Sant could just about stomach Hardaker. Lister was a different matter.
Lanky Lister – as other officers liked to call him, though never to his face – arched his lofty skeleton, stuck out his veiny neck and signalled the start of proceedings with a wave of his bony hand. Then he summed up the events of the last ten hours, stressing that no names of any victims could be released until next of kin were contacted and identifications confirmed. All thoughts, understandably, were with the families. The only name he could release to the news hounds was the one they knew about already: Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden.
Sant had already sneaked a peek at a TV screen screaming the headline POLICE OFFICER KILLED IN BUS ATTACK. The ‘other victims’ got tagged onto the end of the news ticker. Ironic. One of the few occasions an officer demanded respect was on the occasion of their death.
Hardaker rounded things off with the usual call for information regarding the incident. He was a good speaker; better than Lister. Unlike most CID officers, Hardaker blossomed under the roving gaze of the public eye. The Chiefman, as Hardaker was nicknamed owing to his long red locks and pointed red beard, was a man going places fast.
Questions followed. As instructed, Sant said nothing and put on his best professional pose. Seen but not heard. It brought out the kid in him.
‘Have you found the murder weapon?’
‘Not yet,’ Hardaker declared. A neat response. Honest but not without hope. ‘Teams of officers are searching the crime scene as we speak.’
‘CCTV images?’
‘Likewise, they are being retrieved and examined as we speak.’
‘Has anyone been detained in connection with the incident?’
‘No,’ uttered Lister. Less hopeful, less assured.
‘Are the police looking for more than one gunman?’
Lister shifted in his chair, his head leaning awkwardly to one side. ‘Our investigations are ongoing as far as numbers go.’
‘Numbers? So two minimum?’
‘Well, er, as I was saying, investigations are – ’
‘But how can one person kill others on a moving bus, including the driver, and get out before it crashes?’
Hardaker took over. ‘Detectives investigating the incident remain open-minded about whether they are dealing with one or a number of perpetrators. The situation is fluid and we will update you with developments as soon as they become apparent.’
‘Did the shootings take place inside or outside the bus?’
‘Inside,’ Hardaker replied.
‘Can you explain your evidence for this?’
‘Certainly. The heckle marks found in the smashed window glass were at right angles to the outside surface, indicating the bullets entered the windows from the inside.’
‘Was the bus in motion or stationary when the shootings occurred?’
‘We believe it was moving,’ said Hardaker, running the show now.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Judging by the speed of the vehicle at impact with the shop buildings, it is likely the bus was moving.’
‘So how did the killer or killers manage to escape from a moving bus?’
Hardaker replied without hesitation. ‘It was probably moving slowly at that phase. The driver appears to have applied the brakes after hearing gunshots. The perpetrator or perpetrators would have had time to escape from the open doors before the bus began to pick up speed down the slope of the hill.’
Almost perfect, Sant thought.
‘The number of fatalities?’
This time Hardaker paused slightly.
‘Six,’ Lister said.
Hardaker glanced to his left. ‘Seven, including DS Dryden.’
Lister blushed slightly and bit his lip.
‘Injured?’
‘Two,’ said Lister. He got that right.
‘How many of the fatalities are women?’
‘Two.’
‘Children?’
‘None.’
‘Were the bodies found on the lower or upper deck?’
Hardaker intervened again. ‘Three on the upper, four on the lower.’ He was good at maths; Lister not so hot.
‘Did the killer start firing on the upper or lower deck?’
‘We cannot confirm that information at present.’ A textbook response from the Chiefman.
‘Any evidence of a terr
orist attack? Islamist extremists, maybe?’
The Chiefman kept his cool admirably. ‘We’re not ruling anything in or out. Needless to say, the Ministry of Defence is in close touch with us.’
A flurry of further questions went by before the whole technological operation began winding down. Journalists from the big news firms had what they wanted; enough copy to see them through the next few hours. Wires were being unplugged, laptops shut. As the conference drew to a close and Lister wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, a last hand went up. The young face attached to it wasn’t familiar to Sant.
‘Was Sergeant Dryden on duty?’ the woman asked.
Good question. No-one had thought of it. The other reporters cast glances her way as they packed away the tools of their trade.
‘No, he wasn’t.’ Hardaker sounded less comfortable. Heads were looking up again.
‘So if he wasn’t on duty, was his presence on the bus just a coincidence?’ the woman probed. She had a feminine yet firm voice.
‘All lines of enquiry are being pursued.’
The reporter wasn’t convinced enough to quit. ‘So there’s a chance he was deliberately targeted?’
Hardaker rolled his eyes in Lister’s direction. Nothing was forthcoming. An uncomfortable pause later, he mumbled: ‘That is – a possibility.’
‘But assuming DS Dryden wasn’t in uniform, and assuming he was the killer’s main target, surely the killer knew his victim prior to the killing. Knew he was a police officer.’
Hardaker was regretting not tying up the conference sooner. ‘That may be the case.’ He stood up to leave.
‘All things considered, are we dealing with a police assassination?’
A ripple of excitement ensued at the sucker punch. ASSASSINATION. What a word! The whole place was buzzing with its sheer sibilance. Reporters dived under and over each other, frantically plugging wires back in. Keyboards started tapping again, the microphones humming their appreciation.
Recovering his composure just in time, Hardaker announced: ‘The enquiry is at an early stage and, as I said, we are ruling out nothing. We will, of course, provide updates at regular intervals.’
The young reporter still wasn’t finished. The London hacks had had their say. Now it was her turn. Her voice was carrying nicely. She had a captive audience. All routes pointed her way.
‘Is there a connection between the bus killings and any other serious crimes presently being investigated?’
Sant couldn’t believe his ears. This was exactly the conundrum he needed to unpick, except he hadn’t thrust his mind that far forward. And now this quick-witted journalist was doing the mental work for him. Other serious crimes? Which crimes did she mean? Talk about alarm bells; shivers down spines.
Sant looked across at Hardaker. His eyes were wider than a runway. Was the Chiefman thinking what he was thinking? Maybe this young hack was thinking the same thoughts too. She might be telepathic. She might be a genius for all Sant knew.
Lister just shook his head, scratched his ear and made a grunting noise. Then he affected a very loud cough before pronouncing the usual rehearsed denouement. ‘We cannot rule out a connection. What we can do, however, is follow every lead until whoever committed this horrendous crime is brought to justice.’
Pleased with himself, Lister gave a final wave of his bony hand and left with command in his pace, Gilligan and Hardaker trailing behind. Sant was in less of a hurry. He wanted a word with mind-reader extraordinaire. But as he peered over towards where the woman had been sitting, all he saw was an empty seat.
She wasn’t a mind reader after all.
4
She knew the dangers. Now there was no way back.
Years, decades had passed, and there was no telling how long it would last. She’d been content enough before now, living her secretive existence, looking over her shoulder. But the time had come to play her hand.
The uncertainty lay in deciding which cards to lay down first…
The advice she’d been given on who to talk to and what to say was good. But how to broach the topic had been more knotty. Perhaps the anniversary had spurred her on. Wasn’t it ironic that things should take a turn on that date, on Halloween of all days, when the living pay their respects to the dead?
She wasn’t even superstitious. Yesterday.
All she was sure about was this: he was the right man for the job. She didn’t know much about him beyond the recommendation, though it was enough to convince. He was young and eager to do well, not young enough for age to count against him. And he’d expressed a deep passion for upholding the law, no matter what.
He was also a diplomat, prepared to negotiate for the sake of putting people at ease. Most officers steered away from malpractice by complying with a strict code of conduct. Only the most gifted treated the code as a mild inconvenience and favoured their own intuition above all else.
She couldn’t be sure whether the policeman was really gifted or just competent. In fact, she decided, pinching the dimple on her chin, she couldn’t be sure of anything.
Maybe he’d do nothing. Maybe he was privately laughing at the absurdity of what she’d told him. Or maybe he would pass the information to the wrong people; to those she hated and feared the most.
Lying in bed, safe in the anonymity of her two-bed flat on the eighth floor of her dreary council block, she couldn’t help worrying about the night before. It had been a long trek back, the exercise relieving the stress, though the walk had not been free of adventure. Had she been followed? Her eyes moved to the filthy windows across the room, black with the soft glow of daybreak smeared above the blinds. She squirmed her head back onto the pillow and pulled the sheet under her chin.
She looked left at the bedside table. A gift from the girl she loved the most. A retro clock. Nearly ten. It always brought a smile to her face when she recalled those words – so you can wake up early and walk me to school. They were always late, regardless. Their best excuse? The burial of a guinea pig. The others were equally as dubious.
Memories. Never forgotten…
The sun peeped under the blinds, smears of orange sharpening to creeping yellow rays. She always felt guilty about lying in. But then, what was there to get up for these days? She had no job. Didn’t want one. Last year she’d joined the gym (not that she needed to lose weight, her BMI judging her borderline underweight). She had hoped to find discipline and motivation there. Her New Year’s resolution to do thrice weekly workouts was soon abandoned.
Rubbing a lock of hair between her fingers, she held it up, mouth turning down. It needed dyeing again. She let out a breath, pulled the sheet off. Seeing her legs always improved a sour mood. One foot glided up the opposite calf, low purr coming from her throat. She knew the effect they had on young men. On those who gave her the look.
Being free and single was her ultimate lot, all the same. Life hadn’t treated her well on the relationship front. She’d married young – her greatest mistake. Eight years of misery living with a violent man who expected her to attend to his every need. The only positive from the sorry affair was not getting pregnant.
Reflecting on one’s past is a sign of too much time on one’s hands. So preached the agony aunt in the magazine she’d read the night before.
She got up, made tea and toast, turned on the telly.
The usual morning routine.
In many ways her life felt like a football match. A game of two halves. The first half amounted to something like a career, though no job for life had blessed her lucky stars. The only jobs she looked back at with pride had culminated in the unspeakable horror; the half-time dressing down after a losing strategy.
And, crucially, no whistleblowing.
The second half, thus far, amounted to much the same without a future.
She didn’t mind the tedium. Life was less complicated now. Her girl was a grown-up, more or less independent for the time being, and that lifted some of the worry.
What truly bothered
her, as she burnt her lip on boiling hot tea, was a lingering desire to face up to the unspeakable – that something she’d once witnessed and tried to forget. Had been advised to forget. Forever.
It was like a rash that wouldn’t go away. She’d failed to pluck up the courage to do anything about it. Until now. The rash was feeling less sore this morning. She’d been persuaded to act. And despite the worries plaguing her, she was feeling good. A little better than before.
She took a large bite of toast and washed it down with the last of her tea. It had been a late night and the round trip through the woods had caught her out by surprise. Perhaps re-joining the gym wasn’t such a bad idea. And yet those first steps towards revealing the secrets, the facts, the evidence she’d pent up inside for so long, had given her a new lease of energy.
Things were looking up. She dared herself to believe it… and could not.
Countless TV crews armed with tripods and windjammers formed a semi-circle around the blue and white cordon as Sant attempted to ghost through. One plucky reporter almost dragged him back under the cordon. He growled a curse, gave a firm shove and kept moving. Police and press helicopters glared down on the onlookers, giant mutated dragonflies with a nose for trouble. Contrary to the opinions of the Keep Sunday Special campaign, few people went to work on the Sabbath – and here was evidence to prove it.
Capstick had already drawn up an inventory of items found in the pockets of the deceased with the help of a few white coats. He read from the list as Sant struggled to hear him over the sound of sawing and drilling. The bus was proving a monster to shift.
‘First, the driver. It turns out Mr Simpson did twelve months at Her Majesty’s pleasure for armed robbery.’
‘How long ago?’
Capstick consulted his tablet. ‘Mid-eighties.’
Sant scratched his neck with satisfaction. ‘And there’s me thinking bus drivers were the salt of the earth. Good work, Capstick.’
A graduate fast-tracked up the pay scale on the strength of his report-writing skills, DC Capstick made up in cleverness what he lacked in courage. Sant knew his weaknesses. Capstick was considered ‘soft’. He dreaded confronting anyone remotely criminal, preferred desk-work or studying his criminology books to dealing with the real thing. Sant had overheard the words ‘coward’ and ‘Capstick’ uttered in the same sentence on more than the odd occasion.
